


baby just say yes

by thelimitsofthe_sea



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Bad Parenting, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Game of Thrones-esque, Gender Roles, Genderbending, Humor, Mysterious Deaton, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 17:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9913526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelimitsofthe_sea/pseuds/thelimitsofthe_sea
Summary: A wolf, she thought, strangely calm, strangely certain. He’s a werewolf. She sat, staring. He turned suddenly, his eyes as red as blood,  and Stiles felt a shudder of pure fear go down her spine.He had seen her too.Princess Stiles, the ugliest and awkwardest of three sisters, finds herself engaged to a werewolf who appears to hate her existence. As they say, the course of true love never did run smooth.





	1. Chapter 1

      Princess Stiles sat miserably in the corner, watching her sisters, Jackson and Scott, glide gracefully across the dance floor. Stiles had been banished from the lesson after she had tripped over her own feet and crashed into Scott, bringing them both to the floor in a chorus of shrieks and a flurry of taffeta skirts. Jackson executed a perfect double reverse spin at that moment, and Stiles sighed hopelessly and buried her head in her hands. The triplet’s debut ball was coming up in a fortnight, and their father, King Finstock, had made it abundantly clear that the wanted all three of his daughters married off before the end of the year. Jackson was beautiful, vivacious and something of a coquette. Scott was sweet and pretty. Both of them would probably meet their fiancés at the ball. But Stiles was perpetually awkward, clumsy, and as far from fetching as it got. She knew it to be true that no lord or prince would ever take her as his wife, no matter how rich and powerful her father may be. Scott always tried to reassure her otherwise, but Stiles knew her sister was only being kind and taking pity on her. Stiles would end up a spinster princess, an embarrassment to her father and the realm. After another half-hour of contemplating her seemingly inevitable forever-aloneness, the lesson was finally over. Her sisters walked towards her, and they looked very pretty, all flushed and laughing. When Scott saw the look on Stiles’ face, she ran over and threw a comforting arm around her waist.

       “Don’t you worry, dearest; we’ll have you dancing like you were born to by the time the ball comes along!”

       “That’s a lie, and you know it. We’ve been taking lessons since we were twelve, and I still have two left feet. If anyone does dance with me, I’ll probably trip and fall all over him!”

        “He might not mind that.” Scott said, with a mischievous grin.

        “You need not fear, Stiles,” Jackson drawled, her ice blue eyes haughty and disdainful. “Nobody will be quite that desperate.”  Stiles just gave her a look. “Sorry.” She spat, then stomped off in a huff, her heels clacking angrily on the lacquered floor boards.

        “Wow,” Scott blinked, “She actually apologized! She’s been acting like such less of a bitch to you lately, Stiles.” Stiles nodded.

        “Let’s go and take some tea in my solar.” Stiles offered, and the two sisters flounced off, arms linked. Stiles could barely conceal her wicked smile from Scott. See, she knew something about Jackson that if their father, and worse still, the court, ever discovered, would give her even less of a chance than Stiles of ever getting married.

 

***

 

        Jackson and Scott glared at each other across the room, the needles in their hands flying so fast they appeared only as speeding blurs of silver. For those two, embroidery was less a ladylike pastime, and more a blood sport. There had been many terrible wars in the history of their land, but none quite so brutal or so fierce as to which sister could sew the daintiest flowers and the most delightful paisleys. Stiles, on the other hand, was hunched over her own embroidery, trying desperately to conjure up something recognizable.  Her stitches were uneven, her designs lumpy and crooked.  The needle pricked her fingers yet again, and she stifled a cry as she watched the blood bloom, bright red and mocking. _It’s no use,_ she thought dully, as her finger throbbed. She felt like throwing down her work and screaming. Her sisters excelled in all the womanly arts – dancing, embroidery, riding, conversation, singing, playing the harp – but Stiles could not master any of them. The only thing she could do well was read, and as her father loved to remind her, often and loudly, no man wanted a wife who could count past ten. Stiles wished she had been born a man, so her intelligence would have been an asset, instead of a turn-off.  Just at that moment, the king burst through the door, his crown askew and his usual half-crazed grin splitting his face.

        “So, girlies,” he barked. “What have you sewn for me today?”  Their father had been very involved in their training since they had taken their first steps. Their mother had died in childbirth with them, so he had had to take on her responsibilities. Either that, or he was so disappointed with his pathetic first-born heir, Greenberg, that he decided he’d have an easier time raising daughters.

        “Father,” Jackson piped up immediately, hungry for attention as always. “I stitched our own grand castle, with bright flags flowing from the turrets.” She held up her embroidery, and sure enough, it was impressive, detailed and colorful.

        “Very nice, Jackson, very nice.” Jackson preened under the praise, much too pleased with herself, Stiles thought. The King turned to his second daughter.

        “I sewed a lord and his lady love strolling through a spring garden.” Scott giggled, smiling saccharinely.

        “How adorably feminine of you.” The King said. Finally, it was the youngest of the triplets turn. Her family was all looking at her, their faces expectant. Stiles took a deep breath, and held her work up with shaking hands. There was utter silence for a moment, until it was broken by Jackson’s cruel laugh. Her father and Scott joined in as well.

        “What,” The King gasped, between chortles, “the hell is _that_ supposed to be?” Stiles flushed as red as a tomato.

        “It’s a wolf.” She muttered under her breath.

        “A wolf?” Jackson exclaimed, incredulous. “It looks like a disfigured raincloud!” This sent them into a fresh paroxysm of mirth. Stiles stood there, silent, waiting for it to be over. Finally, the King composed himself, and his face took on a grave expression.

        “Now,” he intoned. “As I’m sure you’re well aware of, your debut ball is tomorrow night.” Three heads nodded in unison. “I want it said by every man who attends that King Finstock has the most beautiful, captivating daughters throughout the entire kingdom.” He smiled, but not at all encouragingly.

        “Jackson,” he said. “You are as lovely as they come, and you have a certain alluring charm. I’m sure the highborn princes will all be fighting for your hand!” Jackson inclined her head, as if to say _well, obviously._  “But you must remember to keep that pride of yours concealed, and your temper as well.  A man wants a bedfellow who is cheerful and compliant, not one who is vain and sulky.” Jackson’s eyes went hard at this, and Stiles could see that she was biting her lip and digging her nails into her palms to stop the sharp retort that was on the tip of her tongue.

        “I won’t displease you, father.” She managed instead, lowering her head like a dutiful daughter.

        “Scott,” The King continued, “You should have no problems. You’re pretty and stupid, the way a man wants his woman to be.” Scott looked confused, not sure whether to be pleased or insulted.  “Stiles.” The King sighed at last, exasperation dripping from his voice. “Could you try your very best not to be completely socially awkward at the ball? If you cannot find it in you to muster more grace than a hog, I shall have to resort to commanding one of my bannermen to marry one of his sons to you.” Stiles winced at that. A marriage so beneath her station would be a joke throughout the realm.

        “Unless Stiles somehow manages to grow some sweetness, charm, and flirtatiousness overnight, as well as a bosom,” Jackson said, with a pointed look at Stiles’ flat chest, “That will be your only viable option, Father.” They laughed again at that, even Scott. Stiles threw her embroidery at their feet, and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her. She could not just stand there passively while they heaped humiliation on her. She ran and ran, down the grand staircase and through the halls, gasping for air from the constriction of her stays, with tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Suddenly, she bumped into something, and was sent back sprawling.

        “Excuse me, your highness. Let me help you up.” The voice belonged to Sir Stilinski, the kindly captain of the guard. He had been at the castle since the triplets’ birth, and he was always willing to lend a helping hand or a listening ear. Stiles accepted the offered hand gratefully, brushing off her skirts, and wiping her eyes.

        “Now what’s a lovely princess like you doing in tears?”

        “That’s just it,” Stiles said. “I’m not lovely. Nor am I witty, delicate or graceful. Something I am reminded of every minute, it seems.”

        “Are you speaking of the ball tomorrow night?” Stiles nodded.

        “Father has said he’ll have to marry me off to one of his bannermen’s sons. And they all took great amusement in pointing out my flaws, as if I don’t already see them! Sir Stilinski, I shall never find a husband!”

        “You shall.” The old knight said, his voice confident and sure.

        “I have no marriageable traits.”

        “You’re intelligent, my princess. Intelligent, loyal, selfless and nurturing. Something that any man worth his stuffing will recognize and value. Beauty fades, and sweetness only goes so far, but a strong mind and a true heart are forever.”

        “Truly?” Stiles asked, sniffling.

        “Truly. Now run along, I have my duties to perform.” And so Stiles did, her heart considerably lighter.

 

***

 

        Stiles was curled up underneath the big chestnut tree on the castle grounds, a half-eaten apple in one hand, and an old-leather bound tome in the other.  It was a recounting of some old myths and legends from almost forgotten ages. Stiles’ favourite place in the castle was the library, with its familiar scent of leather, dust, and safety. She’d had made a vow to herself to read every one of the thousands of books the rickety old shelves contained. Well, she thought to herself, you should have ample time for that. But Stiles was in too good a mood to dwell on negativity. The sun was shining, she had her bare feet stretched out in the fresh air, and her book was absolutely fascinating. Stiles loved all books, but she had a special fondness for fantasy  tales, full of magic, heroes, and supernatural beings. The ball was a few hours away, and her sisters were having a celebratory breakfast of sweet tea and iced pastries with their father, to mark the coming end of their maidenhood. Stiles had been excluded, as punishment for her unladylike conduct yesterday. She didn’t really mind. Iced pastries were delicious, but she savoured the chance to be alone, and to forget the coming ordeal ahead.

        “Stiles!” She turned at the sound of her name. It was Scott, running towards her, still in her casual shift, her bouncy dark hair flying behind her.  “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

        “I thought you were at breakfast with father.” Stiles said, confused.

        “Breakfast finished an hour ago. It’s time to get ready.” Stiles sighed. She always lost total track of time when she was reading.

        “I’m sorry,” she said, getting up, her book clutched to her chest.

        “Leave the book.” Scott sighed in exasperation.

       “I can’t!” Stiles exclaimed. “It could get damaged, or stolen, or-”

      “You can send a servant after it later, but we must get to the castle, and soon. Jackson will already be half dressed by the time we arrive!” Stiles put the book down on the grass reluctantly, and rushed after her already departing sister.

        “How was breakfast?” Stiles inquired. Scott rolled her eyes.

        “Other than the iced pastries, it was a total bore. Father ranted on and on about what we needed to do attract a prince, and Jackson nodded and smiled and sought his praise, as usual.”

        “I am so disappointed to have missed such a riveting and rare display!” The two sisters laughed at that, louder than necessary. It was nice to be able to let off a little of the tension swirling in their stomachs

        “Stiles,” Scott said, after they had calmed. “I’m sorry for not standing up for you in front of father yesterday.” Her eyes were earnest, and Stiles knew that she was sincere. Still, she half felt like rebuffing the apology. She knew that Scott was torn between loyalty to her and the desire to be a favoured daughter, and that it was an unfair pressure on her. Still, she couldn’t help but wish that once, just _once_ , Scott would choose her over pleasing their father.

        “It’s fine.” She said, giving Scott a reassuring smile. She couldn’t stay mad at the one person who knew her better than anyone. Stiles grinned back, her relief palpable at having been forgiven so easily.

        “We’ll all have great fun at the dance, you’ll see.  It will all end like one of those fairytales you love so dearly.” Stiles didn’t respond, not wanting to damper her sister’s good cheer. Life was no story, though; she had discovered this long ago.

        “Race you!” She shrieked suddenly, and she took off across the meadow, her skinny legs wheeling. Scott was close behind her, a better runner, but Stiles had the advantage of a head start. The two sisters raced through meadows, jumped over brooks, and dodged threatening trees. When they arrived at the castle gates, they were gasping for air and their legs were burning. They stopped for a moment, to catch their breath. Scott’s cheeks were flushed from the effort, and her hair had a sheen of sweat on it. It’s almost like we’re children again, Stiles thought wistfully. But children wouldn’t be plucked, primped, and painted; then set out before the court like horses for sale. I am not a child, Stiles told herself. I am a grown woman, and I shall be a wife soon.  Summoning up her courage, she grabbed her sister’s hands, and they made their way through the halls until they reached the dressing room.

        “You’re late!” a voice  snapped the moment they walked through the door. “God knows how I’ll have you ready on time for tonight!” It was Melissa, the triplets’ maid. She had been their wet-nurse when they were babies, and had stayed with them their whole lives:  throughout lost teeth, scraped knees, first flowerings, and now, their debut.  Scott and Stiles muttered apologies. “Off with your clothes and into the tub!” she continued, tucking a loose black curl behind her ear. They quickly shed their shifts and stepped into the ornate tile tub in the centre of the room. Jackson was already in the water, scrubbing her long blonde hair with scented oil. Stiles winced at first when she felt how hot the water was, but after a few seconds it became warm and comforting. Scott and Stiles followed their elder triplet’s example, and washed the grime from their bodies and the sweat from their hair. After Stiles had finished soaping herself and perfuming her hair, she let herself lie back against the side of the tub and relax. Through the steam rising off the water, she watched her sisters. Scott’s hair looked thick and luscious let down, and she had flawless skin, bronzed with the slightest hint of cocoa, just like their mother’s had been.  And Jackson was a modern-day Aphrodite, her cheekbones sharp, her eyes the clear blue of a summer day. The swells of her breasts rose above the water, and her mouth was full and pouty. She was so painfully beautiful that it was hard to remember that she was a real, flesh and blood girl, and not some artist’s vision, locked in paint forever within a gilt frame. But  a painted girl would not speak so cruelly, Stiles thought. She would not be so selfish, nor so conceited. And most of all, she would not- no, Stiles would not let herself think of Jackson’s wickedness, not tonight, when she had many other things to worry about. She looked down at her own body, and the usual dismay took hold of her. Her breasts were practically flat, her legs as gangly as a child’s. Her sisters were slim and willowy, she, on the other hand was stick-thin. Her hair felt stringy and thin against her back. It was just like Jackson and Scott to have taken all the good genes for themselves, and leave her with nothing. After they had finished bathing, Melissa helped them brush all the snarls out of their hair. Then they spread hot strips of wax on their legs, under their arms, and around their eyebrows. A few painful tugs and it was done, and they were hairless again. They donned their pantaloons and petticoats.

        “Must I wear a corset, Melissa?” Stiles whined. “I’m already so skinny.” The last thing she wanted was to be forced into that monstrous whalebone contraption, not when she was already having such problems breathing. Melissa just gave her a look. Soon enough, they were in a corset-lacing chain, each sister helping the one in front of her, with Melissa at the end. Stiles was fumbling with Jackson’s stays, trying to squeeze in her sister’s stomach as much as possible.

        “More.” She said sharply.

        “Jackson, I’m pretty sure that’s as tight as it goes.”

        “It can always be tighter.” Out of the three triplets, Jackson always demanded to be laced up the furthest. She had an almost inhuman tolerance for pain. Once they were all properly restrained, they turned to Melissa expectantly. They hadn’t had a single glimpse of their dresses yet; the stubborn woman had refused to even tell them what colour they were.  Their maid’s eyes were shining with excitement as she hauled three large boxes out of the cabinet.

        “The best seamstresses in the land have been sewing themselves blind over these dresses for months!” she said. “ You will look as edible and delicious as those iced pastries you had for breakfast this morning!”

        “Though not so round, I should hope!” Scott said with a giggle. Jackson went behind the changing screen first, because she was the eldest.

“Can we see now?” Scott squealed.

“I’m doing her hair and makeup first, so you get the full effect!” Melissa called back.

When Jackson stepped out to show her sisters, they were both left speechless. The dress was made of shimmering azure silk, with sleeves that went to the elbow, before tapering out into lacy frills. The neckline was a sharp square, softened by the lace that nestled dangerously low along Jackson’s bosom, before continuing into corset-style ties until the waistline.  The skirt was runched, with a flowing lace underskirt peeking out beneath. She wore a black choker around her neck, with a sinfully large diamond centred at the dip of her throat. Bunches of pearls hung from her ears, and her hair was swept into a glamourous updo, with two curled ringlets falling loose at either side of her face to brush against her collar bone. Melissa had done her make-up skillfully, so that her cheekbones looked even starker than usual, and her eyes popped.  Scott and Stiles cooed and clucked at her like excited hens, and Jackson let a contented smile crack through her usual icy veneer. She gazed into the mirror that Melissa handed her.

          “My god, I really am beautiful.” She murmured, turning her face to different angles, her voice full of an almost child-like wonder. Scott and Stiles rolled their eyes at each other. Jackson made Narcissus look humble. It was Scott’s turn next. She emerged in emerald green samite, the neckline sloped and showing the tops of her shoulders. An embroidered girdle encircled her slim waist, and the sleeves were dagged and full.  The skirt was tied with large, cream-coloured bows, letting the floral patterned underskirt fall demurely to the floor. Her dark hair was open, adorned with a double headband in gold,  a tear-shaped pearl at the dripping to her forehead. The same pearls were at her ears, and on her neck. She spun around, her skirts flaring around her, and giggled, then ran over to Stiles , glowing with happiness.

         “It’s so delightful! It’s absolutely perfect!” She turned to Jackson and threw her arms around her.

        “Aren’t we the loveliest things ever? Father will be so proud!” Jackson looked shocked at the sudden display of affection, and immediately disentangled herself from Scott.

        “Stop it,” she said, aggravated. “You’re mussing up my gown.” Scott just laughed and kissed her on the cheek before flouncing back to Stiles.  Her makeup looked very sweet: cherry blush on her cheeks, and her bambi eyes looked even more adorable than usual.

       “You next, Stiles!” she said cheerily, giving her sister an encouraging shoulder squeeze. Stiles took a deep breath then stepped behind the changing screen.

       “Close your eyes!” Melissa insisted. Stiles complied, feeling her gentle hands slip the gown over her head and tie the laces.

       “Can I look now?”  Melissa sighed in exasperation.

       “How many times do I have to say hair and makeup first?” Stiles could barely keep her eyes shut as she felt powder being dusted across her face and her hair being pulled into some elaborate position. Then she was pushed out beyond the screen into the harsh world of her sisters’ judgment.

       “How horrible is it?” she asked, not daring yet to look herself.

       “Stiles!” Scott squealed. “You look adorable! You have to see yourself!” Stiles tentatively opened one eye, and was pleasantly surprised. Her dress was vermilion chiffon and taffeta, with sleeves that hit at a three quarter length. It had delicate sprays of tangerine ruffles at the hips and bosom.  Melissa had swept her hair into a half-down half-up style, and tucked in sprigs of white cherry blossom into the braids.  Her make-up had been lightly applied, subtly bringing out the flush of her cheeks and thickening the fringe of her lashes.  Stiles inspected herself in the mirror. She looked a bit like an awkward child dressing up in her mother’s clothes, but it was still a vast improvement.

        “These ruffles give you the most adorable little curves!” Scott enthused.

        “Yes,” Jackson agreed. “What a shock it will be for the poor unfortunate you wed to see that it was only a trick of the fabric!”

        “Not half as much as it will be for yours when he sees that out of that squeezed corset of yours the evidence of all those ices pastries is showing quite clearly-”

        “Girls, girls!” Melissa cut in. “This is the beginning of the end of your girlhood together. Could you at least try to show some sisterly solidarity?”

        “You’re asking for the impossible.” Stiles snarked back.  After that, the sisters sat down to a light supper of bread and cheese. It would not do for the daughters of King Finstock to be seen gorging themselves like hogs at the feast. They whiled away the hours until the ball with sewing and nervous chatter. They could hear the sounds of guests arriving at the castle gates and stomping their way to the grand hall. At fifteen minutes to five, when their escorts would arrive, they sat down to prayers. Stiles stared at the flickering candles and the gilt cross of their small altar, and thought of her mother. _Give me strength and courage_ , she prayed, _and let me not be a failure to you and father._ There was a sharp rap on the door, and in stepped the triplets’ escorts. King Finstock was sporting his brand new golden doublet, emblazoned with their royal sigil of a full moon crossed with two lacrosse sticks. Their mother's half-brother, Lord Deaton, had come to represent the other branch of the family. He was clad in the  brightly- coloured, draped silk customary to his desert homeland. The last of the three was their older brother Greenberg; he was shrouded in a nondescript, baggy, plain brown affair.

       "Well, here goes nothing!" The King announced. Melissa hugged all the sisters tightly, trying to snuffle back her tears. Then they fell into their order: Jackson was at the front, clutching onto their father's arm, Deaton chose Scott because she was his favourite niece, and lastly Stiles, who was left with Greenberg, of course. As they walked closer and closer to the ballroom, anxiety started building up in her stomach.

       "Lots of people in there?" Stiles asked her brother loudly, hoping some conversation might calm her nerves. Greenberg made a noncommittal noise which could have meant zero or a thousand. Stiles wondered absently how he would ever become a competent king. King Finstock often proclaimed that he would rule forever, for the sole purpose of denying his heir apparent the throne. It was a well-known secret that he wished Jackson had been born the eldest son; she was clever, arrogant, and confident, everything a monarch should be.  Finally, it was time to walk  through the curtains and onto the floor. Stiles dug her nails into Greenberg's arm and tried not to hyperventilate. Deafening cheers greeted the princesses' arrival, and Stiles hard to blink stars out of her eyes from the sudden flickering light of a hundred candles. Once her vision chad cleared, her mouth dropped open in shock. The ballroom was as full as she'd ever seen it: lords, ladies, princes, princesses, Queens and Kings from all the neighbouring kingdoms were stuffed into twelve rows of long tables. It was so full that the least high ranking guests were forced to stand. The King  led their procession to the raised table at the centre of the room. Once they had taken their seats, King Finstock rose and cleared his throat. The  room breathed  a collective sigh. Anybody who'd been to Beacon Hills Castle before knew that his speeches could ramble on for a good hour.

         "Beloved friends and guests, what a joy  it is to see  all your  lovely faces," the King started, with a grandiose gesture. "I thank you for honouring this hall with your presence on this very special night." Surprisingly, he managed to keep it fairly short and concise. There were a few of his customary metaphors, however, the most cringeworthy being a reference to "fertile fields waiting to be sown. " Now, you've let this old man go on for far too long. Let me introduce the young ladies themselves!" The interest of the crowd piqued suddenly.

       "My eldest daughter, Princess  Jackson!"  King Finstock yelled, beaming with pride. Loud  cheers and more than a few whistles burst from the crowd. Jackson lowered her head at the attention and blushed demurely, and Stiles could barely control an eye roll. What a little actress she was, Jackson thought she deserved every shred of attention, and more. Besides, Stiles knew more than anybody that she was hardly the sedate, modest princess she pretended to be.

       "And her lovely sister, Princess Scott!" The King continued, giving her black waves a fond pat. Scott grinned and waved enthusiastically at the crowd, and you could    practically feel the adoration of the crowd pouring back at her.

       "And lastly," The King said, with all the grandeur of a grocer displaying yesterday's on-sale leftovers, "my youngest, Princess Stiles." There was a polite smattering of applause from the audience, and Stiles stared resolutely down at her lap, trying to fend off the embarrassment.

       "And now," King Finstock proclaimed, " A toast! To the Princesses  of Beacon Hills!"

       "To the Princesses of Beacon Hills!" The crowd parroted back happily. Stiles lifted her silver goblet to her lips and took a long sip. She was unaccustomed to wine, and it was much more bitter than she was expecting. She gagged and coughed loudly, and the rest of the wine in her cup slopped onto the cream white table cloth, leaving unsightly purple stains. As Stiles looked up, she saw that dozens of people were looking at her, barely containing their chortles. Worse still were the looks from her family. Jackson's gaze was cool and contemptuous, Scott's sympathetic and kind, but both hurt equally. Her father gave her an exasperated look, as if to say, how could you have messed  things up already? Stiles was so humiliated she wanted to burst into tears and hide under the table . This was going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

        Stiles stared down at her plate of chocolate torte stuffed with layers of raspberry sauce, her mouth salivating. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to tear into it like a savage. Beside her, Greenberg was licking the crumbs off his plate. Stiles glared at him. It really wasn't fair. The entire feast had been an excruciating torture for her. The courses had been truly decadent: mouth-watering aromas drifting up from gourmet dishes prepared especially for the occasion. And of course, every time Stiles had taken more than a few small bites, a glare from her father had forced her to put down her fork. A true lady only takes delicate, dainty tastes of each dish.  Whoever made these rules deserves to be hug, quartered, and drawn, Stiles reflected bitterly , violently stabbing her torte with her fork, until a muttered "Don't be such a child, Stiles," from Jackson deprived her of even this small pleasure. Finally, the feast was mercifully over, and the tables were cleared from the hall to make room for the dancing. A troop of musicians made their way into through the door, armoured with harps, lutes, and drums. They set themselves up in the corner, and were soon striking up a merry tune. The princesses were given the first  dance on the arm of their escorts, all the guests watching and clapping. Stiles clutched onto Greenberg, crossed  her fingers and prayed to God, and she somehow managed not to trip and fall in front of everyone. Afterwards came organized line and reel dancing, so she didn't have to worry about finding a partner. All the men Stiles danced with were polite and courteous, but she often noticed them glancing over her shoulder at other ladies of the court. When it was time to choose partners for the waltzes, Stiles pleaded a headache and sat down at the sidelines. She didn't want to suffer through being chosen by only old, blind widowers or pimply, desperate youth. Everyone but her was having a marvelous time. Scott was giving dance after dance to a slim, dark haired prince from a neighbouring northern kingdom. They waltzed by close to her, and Stiles could see the besotted look in her sister's  eyes, and the dreamy smile plastered on her face. Jackson was being much more pragmatic, dividing her dances fairly (and calculatingly) between all the most powerful and influential princes in attendance . She was the very picture of grace and charm, laughing with a shake of her golden locks at the jokes and compliments being showered upon her.  She was perfectly proper and composed, but there was a coquettish look in her eyes and  a slight trace of something wicked in her smile which was undeniably alluring. Deaton was sitting at a table, sipping spiced wine and discussing prices and trade routes with a captive audience of other merchant lords. King Finstock was standing at the very centre of the floor, all by himself, shimmying and swaying to a tune only he could hear. If he had been anything less than a king, he would have been laughed out of the room, but he was the ruling  sovereign of Beacon Hills, and he could  do as he pleased. Suddenly, the music stopped. The revelers took a break to watch a travelling band of jugglers and acrobats from the tropical island of the Jade sea. Scott managed to detach herself from her prince, and flounced over to Stiles, grinning.

        "Well, someone is certainly a fairy tale princess tonight!" Stiles exclaimed. "Who is the lucky gentleman?"

        "He is Prince Allison, son of King Christopher, and heir to kingdom Argent."

       "Wait," Stiles said, trying to remember something she had read in her books. "Kingdom Argent controls the gigantic salt, silver, and iron mines of the Monkshoods Mountains, no? One of the most lucrative resources throughout all the kingdoms?"

        "It is true," Scott affirmed, flushing happily. "But Prince Allison isn't conceited or pompous at all. He's sweet and kind and gentle and has the most adorable dimples....." Her voice trailed off and her eyes became glazed.

       “Earth to Scott! I know you're smitten, but can we please focus on me for a second here?"

        “Sorry." Scott said bashfully.

“We both know that after the entertainment is finished, Father will announce the ladies' choice dance. He'll expect me to participate, but I haven't clue who I'll  ask!"

         "How about the man who's been staring at you half the night?" Scott said, with a teasing grin.

         "Who?" Stiles exclaimed incredulously. Scott pointed past her shoulder. Stiles whipped around. Sure enough, a tall man was standing across the room, his eyes fixed on Stiles. His brows were furrowed menacingly, and his arms were crossed defensively  across his chest. Stiles looked away uncomfortably.

        "Has he really been there all this time?" Scott nodded enthusiastically.

         "He probably really wants to dance with you but is just too shy! Isn't that too cute?"

        "Uh, Scott?" Stiles said dubiously. "That look didn't really communicate ‘I want to dance with you’. It was more like ‘I want to tear your throat out and watch as you slowly bleed to death’."

       "Some people just have more serious faces!"  Scott insisted. Stiles rolled her eyes. It was kind of her sister to try and make her feel special, but this was just ridiculous.

        "Besides, I don't even know who he is!"

        "But I do." A voice said quietly, right in Stiles' ear. She nearly jumped out of her skin in shock. Scott just  laughed indulgently.

       "Stiles, it is my pleasure to introduce you to King Christopher."

        "Your Grace." Stiles stammered, managing to choke back her surprise at the rather rude interruption, and she dropped into the customary curtsy.

   "That's Prince Derek Hale, last of his  line and heir to the Forbidden Forest." King Christopher continued, as if nothing had been said. A prince, Stiles thought, but when she turned  to look again, the man was gone.  "An odd fellow. Best to stay away from him." The King grinned at him, and his smile may have been amiable, but something in his eyes screamed danger. Then he sauntered off without another word.

        "An odd fellow?" Stiles repeated. "Listen to the crow calling the raven black!"

        "Hush,  Stiles. He's not odd, just… different.”

        “You’re only saying that because he’s Allison’s father!” Scott shrugged apologetically.

        “Can’t talk bad about my future father-in-law, now can I?”

        “Wait. Father-in-law? We’re getting a little bit ahead of ourselves here. I mean, you don’t even really know the family at all-”

        “It matters not!” Scott insisted. “Prince Allison and I were meant to be, every fibre in my being is telling me so!”

        “Look who’s suddenly waxing poetic.” It was Jackson, one hand clasping a flute of champagne, the other on her hip. “The wine has clearly gone to her head!”

        “Do not mock me, I know that what I feel is true!” Jackson rolled her eyes.

        “You’re a princess of a proud kingdom, Scott, not a love sick schoolgirl. Try to behave as such. I suppose you will chose him for your dance?”

        “But of course!” Scott exclaimed, practically bouncing with excitement. “And tell me, Jacky, out of your multitude of suitors, who shall receive your previous favour?” Jackson bristled under the hated nickname, but smiled indulgently at Scott.

        “Father tells me I should pick Prince Lydia.”

        “And do you always do what father says?”

        “His father is Emperor of the Jade Islands. If I manage to sink my claws into his son, I shall be an Empress one day, imagine that!”

        “You  are the consummate romantic, sister dear.” Stiles deadpanned. Jackson whirled on him, eyes flashing.

        “As if you have a right to criticize me! You don’t even have someone to dance with!”

        “Yes, I do.” Stiles retorted, lifting her chin high and trying to make her voice as chilled as ice.

        “Greenberg doesn’t count, darling.”

        “Oh, believe me, he’s not Greenberg.” Stiles replied, hoping she sounded mysterious and worldly. Scott was glancing nervously between the two of them.

        “I’ll believe it when I see it. Show me this obscure phantom lover of yours.”                   

            “I will.” Stiles responded, with all the dignity she could summon. She then turned and walked through the throngs of people, feeling her sisters eyes on her back. The man- no, Prince Derek, she corrected herself, was standing at the very edge of the crowd, watching her every step as she approached.  She was soon standing before him, but he said nothing, his eyes never wavering from hers.

        “Hi.” She said brightly. “You probably have no clue who I am, but-"

        “You’re Princess Stiles.” He said abruptly. His voice was deep, but something in it was slightly sulky.

        “Um, yes. Quite right.”  Derek said nothing in reply. “Anyways,” Stiles rushed on, “I was wondering if you maybe wanted to dance with me?” There was a very awkward silence.

        “Why would I want to dance with you?” He replied, his tone arcing up in the end like he was asking a legitimate question.  Stiles literally felt like she’d been slapped. She knew she wasn’t exactly hot stuff, but surely a dance with her wouldn’t send him to the grave.

        “Look.” She said, swallowing her anger. “I know you don’t want to dance with me, and I honestly would rather jump into a pit of scorpions than dance with you, but the last drop of pride I have left is on the line here.” Derek raised his eyebrows in query. “I told my sisters I had someone to dance with, and I really don’t, and if you don’t dance with me, they’ll never let me forget about it.” At that moment, the music swelled up again, and Stiles could hear her father’s strident voice announcing that it was time for Ladies’ Choice. Derek had still not replied.

        “Okay. I get it.” Stiles muttered, a blush spreading up her cheeks. “Thanks for listening to me.” She started walking away, dreading the sound of contempt in Jackson’s voice, when she felt  someone grab her arm. It was Derek Hale.

        “Fine.” He said, his voice harsh.  He brought his hand haltingly down to her waist, then led her to the floor. Stiles mouth was still wide open in shock when they were halfway through the first waltz.

        Stiles had expected them to dance only the first couple of tunes, but they were almost done the set and Derek still hadn’t let her go.  She thought it would be too rude to tell him that she didn’t want to dance anymore, considering that he was doing her a favour, so she kept quiet and dealt with the awkwardness.  And it was awkward, very awkward. For all the eye contact he had been making earlier, he now seemed resolutely determined to stare at a spot just above her head.  Following his cue, Stiles decided to look elsewhere as well. It is very hard to dance properly with someone when your main goal is to try and ignore the other person’s existence. He was completely out of time, and had no sense of rhythm. Stiles felt as though she was being dragged along, not guided. Every time he spun her, she thought her shoulder was going to dislocate. It had all been worth it, though, for the looks on her sister’s faces. Jackson had been clinging onto her tawny haired prince when Stiles and Derek had stomped by, and her jaw had dropped in incredulity. She even blinked a few times, as though to clear some disturbing hallucination from her sight. When she had realized that, in fact, Stiles had somehow managed to snag a prince, and a relatively attractive one at that, she gave him a scathing glance, then turned back to Lydia, the fake smile plastered on her face a tad less sweet than before. Scott had even broken away from the trance of Allison to give Stiles a huge grin and a thumbs up. All in all, things were working out pretty well for her. She felt almost happy for the first time that night. She stole a quick peek at Derek. His eyes were hard and he looked as though he was about to meet a foe in battle. Stiles didn’t know why he was so serious, but she decided she would try and lighten the mood.

        “So,” She chirped. “Is it nice where you come from?” He glared at her.

        “It’s called the Forbidden Forest. How nice can it be?”

        “Well,” Stiles stammered, trying to find safe ground. “I’m sure it’s very…peaceful.”

        “That’s one way to put it.” He said, with a bitter laugh.

        “Are you enjoying your stay in Beacon Hills?” Stiles tried,

        “No.” He replied simply. Stiles gulped and stared at her feet. This really wasn’t going anywhere. Suddenly, the music sped up, and Derek accidentally stomped on her foot. Stiles let out a loud yelp of pain. Dozens of pairs of eyes were fixed on them.  Stiles flushed. They would all be laughing about what an idiot she looked like later. Stiles was determined to make an oppourtunity out of the  embarrassing experience.  If Jackson can be a shameless coquette, so can I, she thought, and leaned close to Derek’s chest and fluttered her lashes.

        “Didn’t your mother teach you that nice girls like me don’t like to be treated so rough?” She purred, or at least tried to purr. It sounded more like she had strep throat.   Derek gave her a weird look.

        “My mother’s dead.” He said loudly. “So is the rest of my family.” Stiles felt like hitting herself. She had heard King Christopher say that Derek was the last of the Hale line. Why had she let herself say something so completely stupid?

        “Oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean – ”

        “Sorry? You feel sorry for me?” Derek said harshly. He dropped her hands from her waist. Anyone in the room who hadn’t been looking at them before now was. Stiles was vaguely aware in some corner of her panicked brain that the music had stopped. “You should save your sympathy for yourself, you need it more.” Stiles blinked up at him in confusion.

        “Forgive me, my lord, I do not understand.” She murmured.

        “You’re the odd one out, aren’t you? You’re the piece that has never fit, and you never will.” Stiles’ heart was pounding with   shame.  The whole room was hanging onto Derek’s every word. He continued, mercilessly. “You’re not pretty, you’re not charming. You don’t have a clue how to play their game. No prince is ever going to marry you. It’ll be the convent or spinsterhood, and you know it, and that’s why you look so sad.” Everyone burst into titters and murmurs around them, but all Stiles could hear was Derek’s voice, saying _you’re the piece that has never fit,_ over and over in her eardrums until it became Jackson’s, and then her father’s.  “I mean, look at you,” he said, with a snort. “You were so desperate that you had to beg me for a dance so that you wouldn’t look like a fool.”  The laughter that echoed through the hall was the most painful sound Stiles had ever heard.  Not only had he just dashed any slight chance of a proposal for her, he had ensured that she would not be able to show her face in court again for another sixty years. The anger that burned in her gut was sharper than any she had ever felt. Yes, she had made a thoughtless remark, but she in no way deserved to be utterly humiliated like this on the day that was supposed to have been her fairytale. She raised her hand and slapped him. Hard.

    Utter silence went through the crowd as quick as lightening.

     A lady never raises her voice at a gentleman, much less a hand.

     Stiles turned and ran from the room, pushing and shoving with reckless abandon at anyone who crossed her path.

      “Restrain her!” she heard The King yell.  She dodged past the guards blocking the door, flying through the hallways, until she stumbled into the moonlit garden. She threw herself underneath a rose bush, and let herself sob like a wounded animal. Big, deep, snotty sobs, the kind you cry when you heart has been stepped on just one too many times. I’m worthless, she thought. I truly am. Even  a man who knew me for less than an hour knew that. She clawed at the grass, at her hair, at her skin. She had ashamed her father in the worst way possible, and brought down the scorn of the kingdoms on her family. She was the worst daughter ever.  She couldn’t bear the thought of facing any of them ever again. I could drown myself in the moat, she thought wildly. No, there’s bound to be some gardening sheers somewhere here, I’ll slit my throat and when they find me, they’ll be ever so sorry.  She stood up on wobbly legs, tears still streaming down her face, determined to follow through with her half-mad plan, when she saw something that stopped her heart in her chest.  All grief and rage and shame forgotten, she could barely believe what she was seeing.

      Derek Hale, framed in the moonlight at the other side of the garden.

      Fur rippling across his skin, his head changing shape with a sickening crunching sound.

 _A wolf,_ she thought, strangely calm, strangely certain. _He’s a werewolf._ She sat , staring. He turned suddenly, his eyes as red as blood,  and Stiles felt a shudder of pure fear go down her spine.

_He had seen her too._


	3. Chapter 3

        Stiles sipped at her warm cup of chamomile, feeling a shiver curl up her whole body, despite the fact that it was a glorious sunny day.  Sir Stilinski had found her in the garden a few hours after the ball had ended, soaked to the bone. It had been one of those freak summer storms, terrifying in its fervour.  As he had led her back to the castle, she had  kept repeating incoherently “red eyes” and “he saw me”. Or at least that’s what they told her. Stiles herself didn’t remember anything. She had seen Derek Hale transform into a demon right before her eyes, and then everything had faded to black.   She had a vicious case of the chills, so at least that much was true.

“Would you like some more tea, dear?” Scott asked, her brow wrinkling in concern. She grasped the teapot and refilled Stiles’ cup to the brim, despite the fact that she had taken barely more than three sips.  Stiles said nothing, but managed to stretch her face into a resemblance of a smile. Scott had been desperately concerned about her after that night, and spent every minute she could by her side, always hastily available with some tea, comforting words or iced pastries.  Everyone in the castle was treating Stiles like she was a glass vase teetering on the edge of a high table. She knew that it was slightly odd to spend  a whole night in a rainstorm, but she thought that they were being unnecessarily wary. If she had told them what she had really seen, they would have thought her mad. Her family had been surprisingly kind about her faux-pas at the ball, however. She had tiptoed down to breakfast expecting angry reprimands, but all her father had done was pat her shoulder and hand her a vial of syrup for her cold.

“Well, Stiles.” He had said, “You messed up. Badly. But I was expecting as much from you, so I guess I can’t be too disappointed. Don’t worry, I’ll find you a convent with a nice view.” Stiles had nodded meekly, and then slipped into the empty chair next to Deaton. He had spooned an extra helping of sweetened fruit onto her plate, and offered her a position as a governess at his holdfast. Even Jackson had somehow not been a complete bitch.

“Really, you didn’t have to try _that_ hard to impress me, you know.” She had drawled, but when she had seen the stricken look on  Stiles’ face her tone had softened. “All men are cruel, dear,” she had said, “But that one more than most. Consider it a lucky escape.” It was a few days after the ball, and Stiles, Scott and Jackson were lounging in the courtyard, enjoying the last dying days of warmth. Her sisters were both buzzing with excitement. Proposals had been pouring in for them, and The King was deliberating over them in his study.

“He must let me marry Prince Allison.” Scott said suddenly, “He just must. I shall simply die if he promises me to another man!” She slammed her teacup onto the table for emphasis.

“Calm yourself,” Jackson said, taking a dignified sip of her earl grey. “And don’t dramatize so. We shall marry whoever Father chooses for us, that is the simple truth of it.”

“Don’t you care at all, Jackson?” Scott replied, wringing her hands in her anxiety.

“Father will wed me to Prince Lydia.” She said, her voice  as confident as anything. “It is no great mystery. The Martins are a prestigious and rich line, and he would do well to have a daughter in their family.”

“And are you pleased with this?”

“ ‘Pleased’ doesn’t come into it.” Jackson said, glaring at Scott. “Really, you’re such a child. It was what we were born to do.”  Stiles stared down at her hands as the other two continued arguing. It was hard to listen to them talk about the future, when she no longer had one.  Convent, governess, or spinster. The words swirled in her head night and day. After she had slapped Prince Derek at the ball, she had lost all hope of ever securing a  marriage, even to the lowliest of lords. Scott and Jackson had both offered her positions at their prospective castles. Stiles didn’t think she could bear living with Scott, despite how much she loved her. She was loopy enough with Allison now, it would be worse when they were married. Stiles could see it in her mind: Scott would have plenty of adorable babies, Allison would be a perfect father and husband, and they would all live happily ever after. And what would Stiles do? Loom awkwardly in the background and help with the babies now and then? She wouldn’t fit into her sister’s life anymore, no matter how hard she might try. Besides, it would be so painful to be constantly reminded of what she would never have. And living with Jackson would be only slightly better. Her eldest sister despised and dismissed anyone who failed to perform their duty, and Stiles was certainly more of a failure than most. She wouldn’t suffer the eternal disdain of the Empress of the Jade Islands for the rest of her days.  And being a “bride of Christ” had even less appeal. Stiles would make a pathetic nun, she herself knew this. She was only devout in moments of utter terror or extreme uncertainty, and the Bible was the only book she had ever been acquainted with in her lifetime that she hadn’t liked.  Something in her blood cried out for excitement, just a little bit, and she couldn’t quite resign herself to an existence made up solely of chanting and prayers. It was with all these factors in mind that she had reached her final conclusion. She would take her Uncle Deaton’s offer. He was a kind and easygoing man, and he would grant his niece most any freedom she desired. Stiles had never seen the desert lands of the south, so it would be a new and exhilarating experience. Taking care of Deaton’s many trueborn and bastard children would almost be like having her own, and in her spare time she could trek through the desert or explore the many colourful bazaars.  She was even starting to feel a little hopeful at the prospect. Perhaps she just wasn’t cut out for marriage, and this would suit her better.          

“Stiles?” She was shaken out of her reverie. “Jackson told me that Prince Allison only likes me because of daddy’s wealth! Tell her she’s wrong!” Scott’s voice was shaking and her eyes were shining with unshed tears. Stiles sighed. So much for Jackson’s sudden nice streak. She should have known a leopard never changes it’s spots.

“Prince Allison adored you, Scott.  He smiled at you like a man caught in the very throes of desire.”

“And what would you  know of that?” Jackson snarked. Stiles rolled her eyes and turned back to her tea. If those two wanted to behave like warring nations, who was she to interfere? Their bickering was interrupted when a maid slammed down a tray laden with cakes and muffins before them . Stiles’ mouth started salivating. She grabbed a cranberry muffin, a lemon-custard cake, as well as a chocolate éclair, and quickly set to eating them. Scott chose the strawberry-vanilla cream cake, and Jackson nibbled at a ginger muffin.

“Really, Stiles,” She said. “The way you’re stuffing those down! There will be dinner, I assure you. There’s no need to devour those like a wolf.”  Stiles stopped mid-chew, and the teacup she held in her hand clattered to the ground, the porcelain shattering into thousands of miniscule daggers. She felt like a hand was clamping around her throat, and it was hard to draw even the most shallow of breaths. All the fear she had felt on that night came back to her, almost bringing her to her knees. She muttered an apology and quickly ran back to her bedroom. A few minutes later there was a knock at the door, and Scott entered, looking confused. Stiles just buried deeper under her blankets.

“Dearest,” she said. “Jackson was just teasing. There was no need to be that upset, you should be used to that by now.” She sat on the bed beside her, and gently rubbed her back.

“It’s not that.” Stiles choked out, her voice muffled by the layers of cotton.

“Then what is it? What could possibly be wrong\-  oh. I’m sorry. You’re still upset about the ball, aren’t you? How insensitive I am. You must forget all about it. Derek Hale is a fool, nothing more.” Stiles wanted more than anything in that moment to tell her sister that Derek Hale was more than a fool, he was a murderous monster with the capacity to the kill them all. She wanted to tell Scott everything. She wanted to warn her about the very real danger that was all around them. Werewolves were real. And if Derek Hale had been hiding it all these years, who else might be? But she couldn’t. Scott would listen to her, and then dismiss it as the mad ravings of a fantasy lover with a cold. And everyone else would be even crueler. They would think that she merely trying to spite the man who had rejected her, and they would think it was a lame attempt at that. She could tell no one. She was completely alone in this. She kept her silence, and after a few minutes Scott got up and left. She fell into a restless sleep that was full of blood, claws, and darkness.

 

 

It was quarter past three, and the princesses had been summoned into The King’s solar. Once there, they found him pacing nervously around his solid oak desk, leafing through the many sheaths of paper he had clenched in his hands. Lord Deaton was calmly spread upon a silk divan, sipping serenely at a steaming cup of mint tea.  The princesses bowed, first to The King, then to their uncle.

“Girls, take a seat.” The King said, his voice strained and excited. Deaton coiled himself up to a small corner of the divan to make room for his nieces. He smiled blandly at them, in stark contrast to the anxious energy that was radiating off their father.  “I’m sure you know why you’re here.” The King announced. Jackson and Scott nodded enthusiastically. They had been awaiting this moment eagerly for days. “You both behaved admirably at the ball, and proposals have come from every kingdom in the land.” He graced his elder daughters with a praising smile. “Now, with the counsel of your Uncle, I have carefully considered each and every one, so that I may choose the best future for my progeny.” He sighed dramatically. “It was no simple task, let me assure you, for many rich and powerful princes and lords sought after you girls. But I separated the wheat from the chaff, the pearls from the oysters, the foam from the lattes, the mildew from the soggy blanket-” The King broke off with a confused blink, as it dawned on him that his metaphors had been making progressively less sense. “Yes, um, anyways, you know what I’m trying to say. I spent sleepless nights laboring on your behalf, tense days full of fear and terror lest I choose the wrong path -”  and so King Finstock went on and on,  in a seemingly never ending, self-praising tirade.  Stiles could feel Scott fidgeting impatiently beside her on the divan. 

“Jackson,” she whispered. “Make him stop! I’ve been waiting eons to for these tidings, I can’t stand it any longer!”

“If you’ve been waiting eons, a few minutes more won’t kill you.” But three quarters of an hour later, it had gotten to be too much, even for King Finstock’s most obedient daughter.

“Father,” she cut in cautiously. “We are all so grateful for the pains that you have taken on for our sake, and so pleased that God saw it fit to bless us with such a caring father. But I fear our delicate female compositions can bear no more suspense! Truly, my nerves are so strained I feel as though I might faint…” She let her voice trail off faintly. Stiles choked back a chortle. If her sister had not been born a princess, she should have seriously considered a career in drama.  

“Uh, yes, sorry. I forget about how flimsy you girls are.  Anyways, let’s snap to it. Jackson, you are one hot lady. I got 26 proposals for you! 26!! That’s two groups of ten, then half a ten, then add one more-”

“Your daughters were taught their sums, Your Grace.”, Deaton cut in.

“Now, I’m not giving away my prettiest daughter to just any high lord. No sirree! Not even a prince was good enough for you.  So guess what I did? Guess what?”

“I am breathless with anticipation, Father.”  The King’s chest puffed up with pride.

“YOU’RE GOING TO BE AN EMPRESS, JACKSON!” King Finstock yelled. “That’s right! You and Prince Lydia are to wed, and someday you will rule the Jade Islands at his side.”

Jackson made the proper cooing noises and feigned surprise.  She had known from the minute that she’d laid eyes on Lydia that she would have him.

“I am so pleased that you managed to arrange such an advantageous marriage for me, Father. It must have been your skill at negotiating and diplomacy, for I know that I am not worthy by myself of such an honour.” Stiles felt like she couldn’t listen to more of this bullshit. Jackson thought she was completely deserving of the Jade Islands, and more besides.  For her, even the world would not be enough.  Stiles tried to stifle the stab of jealousy in her stomach. She could just see Jackson in her future tropical kingdom, wearing some flowy silk confection, her open hair strung with emeralds. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t.

“Scott,” The King boomed. “You also yielded good results! 12 proposals! Let’s hope you should prove so fruitful in your marriage bed!” His daughters exchanged disturbed glances. Sometimes their father just really took it too far.

“Did Prince Allison propose? Tell me he did, father, tell me!” Scott burst out. It was very bad form to interrupt The King, but he was so pleased with her that he didn’t mention it. The King beamed with pride.

             “His was the very first letter that came in, a mere two hours after the ball had ended! I have never seen a man so eager in life!” Scott practically swooned with joy. 

"Father, you must let me marry him, you must! I shall simply die if you make me wed any man but Prince Allison! God made us to be together!"

“Well, I don't know about God, but I do know that the Argents are filthy, dirty rich, and that King Christopher is going to be paying off the bride price I'm going to set for you until he's in his grave!" The King cackled maniacally.

“Is that a yes?" Scott asked, blinking in confusion.

“No, it’s not a yes," Scott's face fell and she was about to sink to the floor in tears of distress when her father spoke again. "It's a  _ hell  _ yes!" Scott let out a squeal of utter euphoria.

"Oh, thank you, Father, thank you!" She launched herself into Jackson's arms, crying happily. Jackson was unsuccessfully attempting to keep her expression neutral, and the only reason she didn’t push Scott away was because their father was watching.  “Just imagine it!” Scott gushed, oblivious to the Jackson’s discomfort. “We can wear matching gowns and have a double wedding!” The look on Jackson’s face clearly showed that she was less than thrilled by that prospect. Stiles felt a wrenching pain tear through her heart. There they were, planning their futures as brides, and Stiles was the outsider, as usual. She did not know why her father had even bothered calling her here, if not to merely cause her more distress.  She had to fight to keep the tears out of her eyes.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice stiff and formal. “My lord uncle has generously offered me a position at his holdfast, which I have gratefully accepted. I shall stay for my sisters’ weddings, of course, but then I beg your leave to head south with him.”

“You shall be going nowhere.” The King responded firmly. Stiles’ eyes widened in bafflement. She had lowered herself to this level while maintaining as much dignity as possible, and he was refusing her! What new devilry was this?

“Pardon me, Your Grace, but I do not understand.” She said, trying to keep her voice even.  “I thought the choice of my future accommodations was mine, whether it be a convent or a holdfast.”

“Your luck has changed, Stiles. You need not become a nun, a governess, or a spinster. I received a proposal for you.”

“What?!?” Jackson, Stiles, and Scott all said in unison. Such a thing was impossible; too fantastical to even contemplate. After the brazen, disrespectful way in which she’d composed herself at the ball,  not even a farm boy would take Stiles for a wife.

“Father,” Jackson said immediately, her mind working quickly, “There must be some sort of mistake. Perhaps you read the letter wrong. In a sloppy hand, Scott could easily be misread as Stiles.” Even though Stiles had thought the exact same thing, she was still miffed that her sister had jumped to that conclusion instantly.

“Or maybe someone is playing a cruel jape on our poor Stiles,” Scott offered, draping an arm around the former’s  shoulder. “There, there , dear.” she cooed, “You must not be mad or hurt. To err is human, to forgive divine.” Stiles pushed her sister away roughly, and would have said something very unladylike if  she hadn’t still been in total shock from The King’s announcement. Sometimes Scott’s sympathy was just as corrosive as Jackson’s insults.

“There has been no mistake, no misinterpretation.” The King continued. “I know how dumbfounding it is, believe me. I mean, _Stiles_ ?  You have got to be kidding me! No man is quite that desperate! I spent a good two hours simply staring at the letter in utter astonishment. But yes, the proposal is legitimate. There truly are some bereft, miserable creatures on this earth who would sink that low!”

“Who is it?” Scott queried. “Some ancient widower?”

“Or maybe some low lord’s third son who is crippled and riddled with the pox?” Jackson suggested.

“No,” The King said with a ponderous sigh. “It’s Derek Hale.”

Stiles’ heart stopped beating for a second.

The world went hazy around her.

This could not be possible, this was too horrible to be real. It must be some demonic nightmare, some freakish twisting of her subconscious.  But she felt the taste of bile rising in her throat, and she knew with a terrible certainty this was nothing she could wake up from.

“Derek…Hale?” Scott said incredulously. “But…  It cannot be! Not after she slapped him in front of the entire court!”

“Perhaps he’s into that sort of thing.”

“Jackson!” Their father exclaimed. “Even _I_ wasn’t going to go there!”

“What?” she said defensively. “We were all thinking it!”

“What are you guys even talking about?” Scott demanded, as naïve as usual.  Stiles could take no more of their pointless bickering.

“NO!” She yelled, picking up a inkwell from The King’s desk and dashing it against the floor, where it spread in a black pool before soaking into the floorboards. That got their attention.

"I refuse!" She was screaming by now. Her family blinked back at her with shocked faces.

      "Refuse?" The King repeated. "How can you, when we once thought it impossible you'd ever marry? Now you have received a proposal from a crowned prince, and you complain? You should be crying with thankfulness!”

       "Father, you saw how he shamed me at the ball! How can I wed an uncouth man like that? Besides, what if Jackson's right? Would you inflict that upon your own daughter?" She could not marry a werewolf. There must be some way of convincing her father out of this folly!

        "Once you're his wife, it's his affair how he treats you, not mine. Derek Hale's family may be dead, his kingdom desolate and abandoned, but his bank account has not suffered. He has offered me an unbelievable sum for you, considering what an unsatisfactory princess you are! You have no choice.  You shall marry him, even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming down the aisle." Stiles looked desperately to her sisters for help. Scott shrugged sympathetically, and Jackson merely mouthed "Bruises heal." Neither of them were about to step to her defense. She felt a shiver of terror run through her body as she remembered Derek Hale's horrific eyes, the way his fangs had shone in the pale moonlight. But most of all, she remembered the way he'd called her worthless, in front of everyone.

         "You would sell your own blood to a monster for a few chests of gold."  She spat at her father. "A golden crown may sit upon your head, but your heart is blacker than Judas's!" And with that, she gathered up her ink-stained skirts and strode out of the room. No one tried to stop her. She headed to the castle’s chapel, trying to keep her head high and her steps purposeful. She dropped to her knees in front of the painted altar, and once again beseeched a God that never seemed to hear her.  If her mother was still alive, she would not let this happen. But her mother had been dead before Stiles had even taken her first breath; the midwife had cut her out of her mother’s stomach. There was no one who was going to help her. Stiles had expected to burst into the sobs the minute she was out of her family’s sight, but she was too angry for tears. Her fists were clenched in her lap, and had to bite her tongue to keep from howling like a… wolf. Oh god, they were going to make her marry a  _ werewolf _ ! She could not fathom a reason that the Hale prince might have to marry her, save to cause her some grievous bodily harm, either for what she’d seen or the callous comment she’d made. She beat her fists against the cool stone tiles of the chapel in impotent rage.

“Surely that is not the socially acceptable way of comporting oneself in a place of God. Then again, I never was much for socially acceptable.”  Stiles rose herself from the floor, brushing herself off.

“Lord Uncle,” she said carefully. “You should have made me aware of your presence  sooner.”

“I saw no need to interrupt your devotions.” Her uncle was lounging against the doorframe, clad in flowing kiwi-coloured silk robes, finishing off the last dregs of his tea. It was a hot day outside, stuffy even in the stone chapel, but Lord Deaton looked as cool as a cucumber. 

“Forgive me for storming off like that, but surely you understand what a terrible strain this is on my nerves.” Stiles offered. She had prayed for her mother, and her mother’s half-brother had come instead. She hoped that her composed, steadfast uncle would prove more sympathetic than the rest of her wretched kin.

“Indeed. If you accompany me to my solar, I shall fetch you a mug of warm spiced brandy. Personally, I’ve always found it more helpful in times of crisis than praying. Don’t take my word for it, however, I am merely a desert savage.”

“You are wiser than all the scholars of the west put together, Uncle.” Stiles said, laughing gratefully. She took Lord Deaton’s extended arm, and he escorted her away from the chapel. His chambers were dim and atmospheric, with  candles and musky smelling incense in great abundance. His servants had strung luxuriant tapestries along the walls, and it felt almost as though they were in a tent in the middle of the desert instead of a cold stone castle. In his solar, Stiles seated herself on a pile of bright silk pillows. She gasped as she noticed the lounging dark shape stretched out beside her.

“Pay Erica no mind. She’s a little gift I acquired from the Sultan of The White Dunes. She’s absolutely harmless.” The magnificent jaguar raised her head, the candle light flickering off her emerald collar. After a moment, Stiles reached out tentatively, and patted her on the head. The big cat let out a contented purr. Stiles felt tears coming unbidden to her eyes as she thought of the life that had been almost hers and now would never be. She turned on her uncle, eyes flashing.

“Father said that he consulted you! Did you not even try to convince him out of this madness?”

“When money is involved, your father is as obstinate as a mule. He wants that bride price badly.” Deaton replied coolly.  “Besides, I did not necessarily see it as a negative progression.”

“How can you mean that? I was starting to look forward to heading south with you! To seeing the dunes and the open sky and tasting all those spicy dishes and swathing myself in bright silks!”

“That future is as gone as a handful of sand tossed into the desert air. You must forget it, or you shall spend your whole life looking back, not forward.”           

“So you think marriage is  better for me than a life of freedom? Is that what you are trying to say?” Stiles’ voice was rising with every word.

“Better does not come into it. Things simply happen, and must be accepted. Perhaps you would have been happy in the desert, perhaps not. Whatever the case, what matter is it now? We must turn our minds to the case at hand.”

“You saw how he treated me at the ball, Uncle. He made it quite clear he loathed me, and now he wants to wed me? I do not understand!”

“Many things in life were not meant to be understood.” Stiles sighed. Her uncle was kind, but infuriatingly vague.

“Why?” She muttered. “Why me? I did nothing to deserve this.”

“It is too early to fret, Stiles. You cannot judge a man’s character from one encounter.” Deaton tilted his head thoughtfully. “I have the feeling that this is a course that was meant for you. Maybe you do not see it now, but there is a purpose for you somewhere.” Stiles wanted desperately to tell her uncle the true reason she did not wish to wed Derek Hale. He would not speak so calmly then.

“It is not all that it seems, Uncle. He is a…a terrible beast!” Deaton laughed.

“Aren’t we all?” His eyes were as impermeable as stone, not a shred of his true feelings leaked out. “The only advice I have for you is this: Keep your wits and dignity about you, think before you act, never say what you mean, and accept failures and victories with an equal amount of grace. Do this, and nothing will destroy you.” Stiles looked down at the fine embroidery on the pillows. Lord Deaton would not raise a pinkie to help her, that much was clear.

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“No need not look so downcast. You may never see the land of your mother’s childhood, but you can at least sample some of that spicy food you talked of earlier. I shall have my chef prepare you a sweet almond curry, what say you to that?” Stiles nodded, albeit glumly. If food was the only comfort being offered, she might as well accept it. And so she spent the evening eating curry and drinking tea, trying not to cry, while Deaton talked about nothing like it was everything, and everything like it was nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles kicked a rock loose from the path with the toe of her heel, letting loose a small cloud of dust.

     “Stop that!” King Finstock barked. “You’ll dirty your dress, and believe me, you need all the help with that monstrosity  you can get!” The words were cruel, but Stiles wasn’t hurt. She knew her father’s agitated state was making him more cross than usual.

     “Forgive me, Your Grace.” She murmured quickly, trying to placate him. The King sighed in exasperation, and lifted a hand to mop the sheen of sweat from his brow. It was noon, and the sun was at its highest point in the sky, shooting golden daggers down on them. Stiles’ throat was dry with thirst, her dress was soaked with sweat, and her hair (which Melissa had styled into an updo with such careful tenderness), was wilting in the heat. If all had gone according to plan, she would have been in the parlour, away from the murderous weather, sipping at a cool mint julep, just as her sisters were doing at that very moment.  Her only consolation was that her Father was suffering just as much as she. In fact, the only one unaffected by the heat was Deaton (just as he was unaffected by anger, sadness, and every other normal human emotion) who was standing straight out in the sunlight, not a gleam of sweat to be seen on him,  sporting his typical cynical and amused half-smile. He was certainly the only one there who was amused. The King was more worked up than Stiles had even seen him, huffing like an angry bull and muttering expletives under his breath, and Stiles was filled with a strange mix of shame and relief. On one hand, she was glad of any excuse to avoid seeing Derek Hale again for as long as possible, but she felt a hot twinge of indignation as she imagined the smirk that would spread over Jackson’s face, and she dreaded facing the disapproval and disappointment of her Father.  Her shame would be the talk of the court.  Most likely rumours were already spreading through the castle like wildfire. Poor Princess Stiles, stood up by her own fiancé!  She would be the object of scorn and disdain, and it was more humiliating than anything. A stable boy passed by them, tugging on the reins of Prince Lydia’s horse, no doubt leading the creature to the paddock to be fed and watered. Stiles recognized him as  Greenberg’s page, a position that existed in name only, for the incompetent crown prince rode only when he had to. As he passed Stiles, he gave her a sympathetic look. She glared back at him in fury. If nothing else, she was still a princess, and she would not suffer the pity of a servant. She felt like a twisted, deformed demon behind a display case, unable to shelter herself from the probing glares of the world.  So there she stood, waiting  with her Father and her Uncle for a man who was not coming, as the minutes passed like hours. It was so pathetic and depressing that she had to keep herself from crying. And to think the day had started off with such promise! After King Finstock had accepted three suitors for his three daughters, letters had flown back and forth between all the involved parties like so many birds in a frenzy. Eventually, agreements on the wedding dates were reached. Scott’s would be first, followed by Stiles’, and lastly Jackson’s. In the land, it was traditional for a man to spend half a year with his fiancée’s family, to better acquaint himself with his future bride and in-laws. The wedding would take place there, and then he would whisk his new wife away to his own castle of holdfast, and she would see her natal home again only rarely, if not never.  Stiles was quite dubious of this whole custom. Once the princes became better acquainted with their Father, they may develop serious doubts as to whether they truly wished to spawn progeny with someone who shared his genes. Besides, with the way Scott and Allison mooned over each other, it would be a 24/7 job for the King to make sure they delayed the consummation until the wedding night. Stiles shuddered at the thought of wedding nights, seeing Derek Hale’s red eyes and sharp claws clear as day in her mind.  _ Don’t worry,  _ she tried to reassure herself.  _ The wedding is still many months off.  _ Besides, it seemed at this point that she wouldn’t be marrying him after all. Anyways, today was the day that Princes Allison, Lydia, and Derek were set to arrive along with their families and entourages.  Stiles and her sisters had risen early to prepare for them, Scott with much giggling and blushing, Jackson with all the regal resignation suited to a future Empress, and Stiles with a blooming sense of dread. Once they had been gussied up, they were stationed with King Finstock and Lord Deaton in front of the castle’s main entrance to wait for their future husbands. King Finstock had marched in front of them, eyeing them with the air of a general inspecting his troops, one hand posed pensively on his chin. He had nodded at Jackson, praising her floral-printed silk gown, had smiled indulgently at Scott and even given her a rare paternal pat on the shoulder. However, when he reached Stiles, his brow had crinkled up in disbelief.

     “Pink velveteen?” He had crowed. “How old are you, eight?!? C’mon, Stiles, we’re trying to make a good impression here!” Stiles had blushed crimson as Jackson had giggled behind her fan.

     “I thought the colour was pleasing," she had stammered, “Besides, it’s the only suitable tea frock I have that isn’t stained or torn.” The King had sighed.

     “I suppose it will have to do then.” He paused, and then his eyes lit up. He whipped his handkerchief out of his doublet with a flourish, and faster than Stiles could object, shoved it down her bosom, poking and prodding at it until he was satisfied. “There. Much better, as I’m sure Prince Derek will agree. I will not have it said that King Finstock is marrying off a little girl!” He turned away from her to address the entire group. “Girls,” he had said dramatically. “I cannot stress to you how important this all is! Comport yourself with dignity, grace, and modesty, of course, but…. But you must also exude a certain…  _ sultriness.  _ You must appear respectable enough to be a Queen, but exciting enough to want to take between the sheets!” He had cackled at the last part, as his daughters had tried to keep their discomfort off their faces. This had all been a few hours ago.  Within less than a half hour, the Argent’s carriage  had arrived, drawing up to the gate, trailed by a long entourage. Prince Allison had stepped out, and ran to Scott immediately,  forgoing the usual courtesy of greeting The King first. Luckily, their Father was not insulted in the least, he merely laughed.

    “My Princess is the very image of beauty.” Allison proclaimed, dropping in a deep bow and kissing her hand.

    “And my Prince is too kind.” Scott tried to reply with dignity, but she giggled halfway through and couldn’t keep the grin of her face. Allison laughed with her and rose back to his feet.

    “Young people!” King Finstock chortled to Allison’s parents. “Were we ever so eager?”

    “Oh, more so, Your Grace. More so.”  Stiles’ Father laughed at this, and King Christopher smiled at his own jest, but beside him his wife’s face was carved of stone. Stiles gave her a closer look. Queen Victoria was older than her husband  by maybe a decade, with red hair mostly covered by a black velvet cap with a purple veil. She and King Christopher shared the same hard, icy blue eyes; cruel eyes that Prince Allison had somehow, miraculously, not inherited. The King and Queen had then progressed down the line, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. Queen Victoria merely accepted Stiles’ polite curtsy with an almost imperceptible nod, staring above her head as though she were beneath recognition. For the first time, Stiles found something in Scott’s future marriage that she needn’t be jealous about.  _ Well, that’s one benefit of wedding Derek Hale,  _ she had thought to herself.  _ No wicked in-laws to make my days a torture.  _ Beside her, King Christopher leaned in to kiss Jackson’s cheek, murmuring that he was so pleased that his future daughter-in-law came from such lovely stock. Jackson’s fixed smile twitched, and Stiles could tell from the clenching of her fist that if she had had the freedom to do so she would have slapped him. Stiles almost felt bad for her sister for an instant, and then she remembered.  _  She deserves nothing better than to be treated like a harlot.  _ King Christopher brushed a hand over Jackson’s cheek, and then moved onto Stiles.  He gave her only a bow, and congratulated her on her engagement.

    “You must be ever so pleased.” The words were polite, but something horridly knowing hid behind them.

    “My Father has done well for me.” Stiles answered carefully.  _ That is not a lie, I suppose. _

    “Prince Derek is an interesting man.” The King continued lightly. “You will certainly have a…how does one put it? You will have a unique life as his queen.”  He gave him a look then, a look that made Stiles believe for perhaps a second that maybe he as well knew of… but no, it could not be… She proceeded cautiously.

    “It is strange, Your Grace, to know so little of the man I am to be bound with for the rest of my living days…” She trailed off, hoping The King would volunteer some information willingly. These were dangerous waters she was treading.

    “I believe I may be able to help you,” King Christopher replied, and his tone was carefully modulated,  though his eyes widened in surprise, as if to say  _ Very good, Stiles. Very good. Much more than I was expecting.  _  “I have been acquainted with the Hale family for quite some time now, you see.”  

    “I’m sure it’s been a pleasure.” Stiles replied, with the slightest bit of sarcasm, and when King Christopher chuckled she was pleased to discover that he was more perceptive than most people.

    “You are blessed with a sharp wit, my dear,” He said, smiling. His voice was very kind, and suddenly Stiles could not remember what had so offset her about the man. He leaned in closer.

    “Everybody has a choice, Stiles. Even a little half-off princess for sale like you.  So it’s time to figure out where you stand, sweetling.  Anyone who chooses the wrong side, innocent though they may be, must suffer the same consequences. It’s all a game, and I play the hunter. And when I see fresh prey, believe me, I do not hesitate.” He was still smiling as he spoke, but something in his eyes screamed danger, and Stiles stepped away from him quickly, all thoughts of courtesy and politeness abandoned. Her heart was beating fast, and his words had sent a chill through her bones. “Good day, Your Highness.” He  had drawled, his manner so light it was hard to fathom the words he had spoken only moments ago.  If it had been a few weeks ago, and Stiles had not seen Derek Hale transform into a werewolf before her very eyes, she would have thought she’d imagined it. But times had changed for our dear princess, and there were far stranger things in life that Scott’s future father-in-law being a psychopathic creeper.  King Christopher walked away from her, back to the arm of his wife. Prince Allison, with an admirable amount of resolve and determination,  managed to pry himself loose from Scott, and had turned to greet King Finstock, begging his pardon. Then he had moved onto Jackson, giving her a polite bow. Jackson had curtsied rather deeply (an age-old trick to put one’s cleavage at the best viewing angle), and  had given him a look that Stiles did not think was entirely appropriate for another woman’s fiancé, especially one’s own sister. However, Allison seemed remained completely oblivious to Jackson’s flirtatiousness, probably because he was too busy gazing over her head back at Scott.  He turned to Stiles last, bowing slightly and muttering a rather distracted “Princess.” Stiles would have been insulted had she not been so shell-shocked by his father’s threat.

“Scott, dearest, why don’t you lead Prince Allison and his parents to the salon? We’ll join you there once the others have arrived.” This was a rather unnecessary comment, because the afternoon’s events had been planned with military precision, but perhaps the King was trying to feign a certain charming spontaneity. Scott grinned, and reached for Allison’s arm in a suddenly shy manner which was very unlike her, and admittedly alluring.  Allison was only too eager, and so they strode off, arm in arm, King Christopher and Queen Victoria following at a slight distance. Once they had crossed the bend and disappeared out of sight, King Finstock let out an audible sigh of relief.         

“One down, two to go!” Deaton only smiled slightly, saying:

 “And thus the cycle of life continues.” Stiles edged closer to Jackson.

“Well you were in something of a hurry to let Prince Allison know what a slut you are.” She whispered in her ear.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Jackson whisper-snapped, glancing back nervously at her Father to assure he hadn’t heard.

“Come on, I saw you displaying your bosom for him as though you were a common tavern wench!”

       " I merely wished to see whether he was a man of flesh and blood, with normal urges. The way he moons after Scott, and only Scott, is quite unnatural.”

 “And?”

“He cannot be human.” Jackson concluded dryly. “No true man would ignore such breasts as mine.” Stiles couldn’t quite bite back a chortle. Her eldest sister could be quite funny when she wanted to be.

“If you can’t have the son, you can at least have the father!” Stiles consoled, and burst into giggles at the disgusted face Jackson pulled. But then their Father snapped at them for being too noisy, and the amused smile that had been blooming on Jackson’s face melted faster than summer snow and she turned to stone again. Oh well. It had been too good to last.  It was about a quarter of an hour later that they heard the rumblings of hooves a while off. Stiles quickly stood up from the lawn where she’d been sprawled playing checkers with Deaton, and lined back up with her family.  She ran a hand through her hair, hoping it was still neat. A shot of nervousness ran through her blood. She wasn’t ready for this. Not yet. A trail of carriages drew into view, and Stiles could vaguely make out green flags flapping from the standards.

“Aquamarine waves, set against a field of emerald.” Deaton observed.  “The sigil of the Jade Islands.” King Finstock rubbed his hands together in excitement. The ancient and prestigious Martin family had ruled over the Jade Islands since the dawn of civilization. Their islands were rich in coveted resources: fish, tropical fruits, freshwater pearls. Their Father had been most pleased at the healthy bride price that Prince Lydia’s father had agreed to pay. Stiles glanced at Jackson beside her, who was standing as straight as a willow wand, her chin high.

“Are you nervous?” Stiles inquired. Jackson just looked at her incredulously .

“The world is being offered to me on a silver platter. Why should I be nervous?” She would have done her customary head shake if the pile of braids on her head hadn’t been so delicately arranged. Stiles rolled her eyes.  Jackson had probably only felt three emotions in her life: pride, jealousy, and ambition. Nervousness wasn’t even a contender. As the procession got closer, Stiles let out a gasp. The Martin royal family was ensconced in a golden, bejeweled palanquin, their weight held by eight servants. Thin gauzy curtains shaded them from the sun. The King let out a squeal of delight (he relished all flashily obvious signs of wealth), and even Jackson looked impressed, her eyes screaming with a hunger that said _All that shall be mine someday._ Deaton regarded the spectacle coolly, remarking “Ah, the Martins. Renowned across the lands for their understated subtlety.”  Just then, the servants drew up in front of them, and set the palanquin gracefully on the ground. The Emperor and Empress of the Jade Islands stepped out first, followed by their first-born son. Prince Lydia had a haughty expression on his face, somewhere between a pout and a smirk, that was eerily similar to the one Jackson used whenever King Finstock wasn’t around.  His blond hair fell down to his ears in waves, and his eyes were the colour of the famous Jade Sea that hugged his craggy islands. He looked good, and by the way he carried himself, he was well aware of the fact.

“Prince Lydia.” Their Father said. “It’s such a privilege to have you with us.  I hope everything meets your expectations.”

“I hope so too.” Lydia agreed, and then turned to Jackson as his parents stepped forth to greet The King.  He eyed her up and down in a way that Stiles did not find particularly chaste.

“Beacon Hills does feature some prime attractions.” The Prince said appreciatively, reaching out a hand and tracing lightly over Jackson’s cheek.

“I am glad that my Prince still thinks so.” She said demurely, but her eyes were brazen.  Lydia smirked at this, then pulled a box out of his doublet with a flourish.

“A small token to your beauty.” Jackson opened the box, and gave her fiancé a genuine smile (the first of the day), as she pulled out a stand of the famed Jade Island pearls, tinted a soft rose colour.

“This… you’re too kind.” Jackson said, obviously slightly shocked, as Lydia reached around her neck to clasp the necklace.  Stiles watched as her sister gazed at the marvelous pearls, and as she looked up at Lydia with more warmth than before in her eyes. _Her affection is easily bought._

“Come,” She said. “There’s tea laid out in the salon.” As they strode off, The King turned to Stiles.

“Well, looks like you’re last as usual, Stiles.”

“What’s a Stiles?” She heard Lydia murmur to Jackson.

“That.” Jackson replied, gesturing  at her. Stiles fought to keep the flush off her face as they both laughed. But dignity became harder to feign with each minute that passed, excruciatingly slow and painfully silent. Stiles kept her eyes peeled for dust on the road, the bright flash of a flag, a far-off trumpet- anything. As she continued to be left disappointed, the humiliation faded into familiar resignation, and even wry amusement at her predicament. What else had she been expecting? What had any of them been? It was easier for the duckling to become a swan than it would be for her to become a bride. 

       “Well,  looks like Prince Derek’s recovered from whatever mental affliction he was suffering from,” King Finstock said,  finally breaking the silence, “and recovered his good sense.” 

      “We should send him a congratulatory card,” Stiles added mildly. She was actually quite relieved at the King’s announcement, for she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and she was hungry and weary of standing and waiting for a man who was not coming. 

      “We might as well go inside then,” he continued. “There’ll probably be some cake and tea left, so it’s not entirely a wasted day for you, Stiles.” He knew her well, Stiles had to give him that.

      “Those who make the first conclusion often know the least,” Deaton commented, eyebrows quirked, making no move to leave.

      “Sure, Deaton,” the King snorted, and slung an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “Come on, kiddo, let’s go.” Stiles leaned into the touch and willingly turned for the castle. Although she smarted at the insult of the rejection, she couldn’t deny the giddy, light-headed rush of relief that coursed through her. She wouldn’t have to face Derek Hale and his cold, pitiless eyes. She would never have to learn what mad fancy or folly had induced him to ask for her hand, or face the consequences of what she’d seen the night of the ball. She certainly wouldn’t have to walk down the aisle as his bride. It would be only a strange isolated episode, like a nightmare legend that sends chills down your spine but whose power is vanished once you close the covers. The light of day wouldn’t touch it. They were several steps past the gate when Deaton’s voice calm voice sounded out. 

       “King Finstock,” he said quietly, “It is not like you to leave a guest waiting at the door. Especially not an invited one.” 

       “What are you on about-” the King started in annoyance, whirling around to face Deaton. And then he was for once left speechless, as he was gaping in shock at the same thing Stiles was. Derek Hale in the flesh, astride a black mare. There had been no sound of hoofbeats, she could swear that only a handful of seconds ago when she’d turned her back there’d been no sign of him on the road. But he undeniably was there. He wore comfortable but obviously high-quality riding clothes, and Stiles gulped as she saw that the clasp of his cloak bore the sigil of the House of Hale. She had always been told in her lessons that it was a baying hunting hound silhouetted against the white of the moon, but she realized now with a cold rush that it was unmistakably a wolf. He looked every bit the prince, but if he was one, he was a prince without an entourage. Of course, Stiles knew he had no family to accompany him. He had certainly made that abundantly clear to her in a way she would never forget, or live down. But he was still a prince, certainly he would bring a train of knights, pledged swords, and groomsmen- just as the Argents and Martins had brought a sizeable portion of their castle’s strength? No, none of that; Derek has arrived alone. 

      “Prince Derek,” her father said once he’d recovered from his shock. “You actually made it! To be honest, I wasn’t expecting hide nor hair of you.”  _ You’re getting more of that than you reckon,  _ Stiles thought to herself bitterly. 

      “And why not?” Derek countered coolly. “I said I would come.” 

     “True,” the King admitted, “But cold feet aren’t so uncommon. Although they usually do happen a bit closer to the wedding. And they’re usually on the bride’s part.” He seemed to realize he was rambling and switched courses. “Forgive me my assumption, my good Prince, I do not doubt you are a man of your word. It is merely that it had been so many hours since the appointed time that we began to wonder. Were you held up by something? The business of the roads at this time of year, maybe?” 

     “No,” Derek replied, but although they waited expectantly, he volunteered no further information. After a few awkward beats of silence, the King turned to Stiles. 

     “My daughter has been breathlessly awaiting your arrival. I am sure she is most gratified to see you.” This was a cue if ever there was one, and if she had missed it in his words the sharp elbow to her ribs afforded no misunderstanding.  She dropped into a curtsy, and kept her gaze demure and lowered. 

    “My lord,” she murmured, for she could think of little else to say to a man who she hadn’t set eyes on since witnessing him transforming into a monstrous beast, and now found herself betrothed to. Oh, and the last conversation they’d had ended with her slapping him. Left with no other resources, Stiles stuck to the social niceties that had been drilled into her from countless etiquette sessions. “It is a privilege to meet again.”

    “The privilege is mine, Princess,” he said, and Stiles was so taken aback by the flowery phrase that she couldn’t help but glance quickly up at him. Sure enough, his brows were raised and there was a slight twist to his lips- the mandatory greetings were mocking coming from him, but she couldn’t tell whether it was aimed at her or at their forced prim exchange. Surely he knew there was no sincerity in the meek words she was expected to utter. They had shown themselves beyond courtly composure at the ball, and now they would have to act that part again, despite everyone full well realizing the falsity of it. She supposed it would be funny, it it wasn’t all so horrible. Besides, he had no right to look so arch- he was the one who’d put them in this ridiculous situation, after all. She felt anger, confusion, and something like hurt welling up in her, and she quickly averted her eyes from his gaze. 

    “We have stable hands at the ready to corral your steeds,” the King cut in, before belatedly realizing that there was no need to use a plural. “Ehm, that is, your horse.” 

    “It’s fine, I can do it myself,” Derek said, looking slightly flustered. Now Stiles exchanged surprised looks with her father and uncle, taken aback that a prince like him would offer to do a task so beneath his station. 

     “No, I must insist,” the King continued. “I would not have my daughter’s betrothed treated so shabbily, not in my castle. Please, let the servants take care of it.” After a second, Derek nodded his acquiescence and dismounted, handing the reins to the stable boy. Derek looked smaller and more uncertain on the ground, and Stiles’ usually verbose father seemed for once at a loss for words. Stiles glanced to her uncle, hoping for an intervention, but Deaton had a serene expression on his face and seemed untroubled by the silence that was stretching ever longer. She let one more awkward moment go by, and then, not able to stand it any longer, she screwed up her courage and spoke. 

     “My lord, you must be weary from the hours on the road,” she said to Derek, glad that deference allowed her to avoid his gaze. “If it would please you to come inside and refresh yourself, I will lead you the salon.” She was poised to flinch, expecting harsh words or a cutting tone, but instead Derek stepped towards her and proffered his arm. 

    “Thank you, my lady.” Stiles blinked at him for a few seconds before belatedly grabbing hold of his arm. Sneaking a glance at his face, she saw an expression of relief at his face, as if she’d provided him with a lifeline in the form of courtly etiquette. It was odd that a prince should be so out of practice with them.  _ But not just a prince,  _ she thought as she led him through the gate,  _ more than that.  _ The arm looped through hers had a strength, a tension coiled in it, that  reminded her of what he was. 

As they approached the salon and the sound of voices and music drifted down the corridor towards them, Stiles felt Derek stiffen and slow beside her. 

    “What’s that?” he muttered in a low voice. 

    “What do you mean?” 

    “Who are those people?” 

    “Who do you think they are?”

    “How should I know?” 

    “Well, surely you know my sisters are getting married,” fighting to keep the condescension out of her voice. “It’s the Martins and the Argents.” If Derek had been slowing their approach towards the doors, he practically ground to a halt now. 

    "I didn’t think they’d be here  _ now _ ,” Derek said, and Stiles was amazed to hear something almost like fear in his tone. “I thought they would’ve already come, or were coming later.”

    “It’s more convenient to host the families together,” Stiles said with a shrug, not understanding what the issue was. She immediately regretted her use of the word family but Derek appeared not to have noticed. 

    “I can’t go in there,” he whispered, and his grip on her arm tightened. He glanced around the hallway as if looking for an escape route, but with the door to the salon in front of them and Deaton and the King behind them, he was cut off. Stiles rolled her eyes. This was getting a bit ridiculous. It was obvious that Derek wasn’t exactly a sociable person, but he got them here, he’d just have to grin and bear. 

   “I don’t particularly want to go in there either,” she muttered sharply, “but I haven’t a choice. Now come on, let’s get this over with.” And with that she made for the door, keeping her firm hold on Derek, determined to drag him in if he wouldn’t go by free will. But there was no need for fear of that, for Derek trailed quite meekly behind her, as if resigned to his fate. 

Inside, her sisters were seated with their fiances and their families on silk divans, holding frail porcelain tea cups, while servants circulated with platters of hors d’oeuvres and a quartet played softly in the corner. They all looked up when Stiles and Derek entered the room. Stiles wondered if she’d be expected to make the introductions, but she was for once thankful when her father strode forth and took the floor. 

   “This is Prince Derek Hale, of the Forbidden Forest, pledged to my daughter Princess Stiles.” He gestured to Lydia and his family. “The Martins, of the Emerald Isles,” he said, before turning to Allison’s family, “And the Argents-” 

   “Oh, we’re well acquainted,” King Christopher cut in with a toothy smile. “Derek. My, you’ve grown.” But although the King was beaming at Derek, he wasn’t returning the smile. In fact, Stiles noticed, peering at him, he seemed to be fighting to keep his expression neutral.

   “King Christopher,” he acknowledged, not granting the familiarity of a dropped honorific. 

   “It’s been so long.”

   “We were both at the ball.” 

    “Of course, but we didn’t get the chance to talk all evening. Then again, you did seem rather preoccupied.” Prince Lydia’s parents were staring awkwardly at their teacups, and Stiles grimaced, reminded that although everyone was acting polite and courteous, they all remembered as full well as she did the embarrassing debacle the ball was. Surely they were all wondering why the two of them were now standing arm in arm, engaged, when last they’d been seen together they were at each other’s throats.  _ Well, don’t look at me,  _ she thought,  _ he makes no sense to me either.  _ “My son, Allison,” King Christopher continued pleasantly, although Derek hadn’t bothered with replying to his last remark. “I don’t think you ever met.” 

    “It’s a pleasure,” Allison said politely from his spot on the divan next to Scott, where they were seated as closely as propriety and company would allow. “I must confess I haven’t been acquainted with your name before, although it appears that you have known my family well.” He shot his parents a questioning look, which Stiles noticed they did not meet. 

   “It was many years ago,” Derek said simply. 

   “I am pleased to learn of the connection nonetheless,” Allison, said “for I wish for nothing but good will between my house and that of yours, which will be my wife’s sister’s as well.”  _ The tongue of a diplomat _ , Stiles mused. Prince Allison was well suited to the throne he would one day inherit. Scott was gazing at him in adoration, either at the chivalrous words or the way he had used the word wife as though the wedding had already taken place. 

   “I wish it were so as well, Prince Allison,” Derek said after a beat. 

   “Be seated,” King Finstock cut in. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” Stiles knew quite well that her father’s polite words masked an impatience to dig into the tea and treats, but she could hardly fault him for it. It had been quite a trying day, and it wasn’t done yet. Talk remained polite and civil throughout, never edging away from acceptable scripts as Christopher Argent’s greeting had done. Primarily, King Finstock talked of trade and politics with the visiting rulers, although Stiles noted that Christopher granted his Queen far more leave to participate in the conversation- men’s business- than most husbands would. King Finstock was nodding sagely and interjecting confident predictions and pronouncements, but Stiles could tell that he was struggling to keep up. He was not a bad King, but he relied on the advice of Sir Stilinski for matters military and his council for politics, and without their backing he was having trouble holding his own, especially against the sharp wit of King Christopher, who seemed much more interested in talking to Deaton. Scott and Allison were chatting softly together, enraptured in their own little world. Stiles observed with amusement Prince Lydia talking her sister’s ear off with stories of his courageous exploits and hunting prowess. Jackson fawned and listened attentively, but Stiles who knew her so well could see the glaze of boredom in her eyes. Stiles thought of all the self-congratulatory pillow-talk she’d probably have to put up with and couldn’t help but grin. Out of the side of her eye, she noted Derek watching her. 

     “What’re you smiling about?” The tone was curious, and not overtly hostile. Stiles decided it was safe to answer honestly. 

     “This,” she said, waving her hand about her slightly. She didn’t explain further, but it was apparently explanation enough, for Derek nodded his head. 

     “There’s a lot going on under the surface,” he agreed. “People pretending to be things they’re not.”

     “And we’re part of it,” Stiles said, looking straight at him for the first time that day. He held her gaze but didn’t respond. “Look,” she whispered, quiet but fierce, “I’m going to need an explanation. Don’t you think you can just shrug me off.” He looked taken aback at her straightforwardness, but slightly impressed as well. 

     “Princess-” he started, but just then King Finstock stood up to make an announcement. 

     “Well, ladies and gentlemen, honoured guests all, that concludes our reception. Servants will show you to your quarters, which I trust will be to your satisfaction. King Christopher, Emperor, may I inquire as to how long you intend to stay?” Stiles held back a curse. Derek had seemed on the cusp of telling her something. 

    “The week,” said Emperor Martin. “It is a long way to the Emerald Isles, and I wish to rest before making the return voyage.” 

    “Would that I could stay so long,” King Christopher said, “but there are pressing matters in my kingdom that demand my presence. We shall have to leave by noon tomorrow.” Stiles felt Derek almost physically relax beside her. 

    “Your Grace,” he cut in, one of the first times he’d spoken in the hour, “I must inform you now that I shall be unable to reside the entire time up to the wedding at your castle.” King Finstock gaped at him, and Stiles couldn’t help but turn around in shock. 

    “What?” the King demanded. “But that is one of the oldest customs in the land. Surely traditions like these are still practiced in your land? I did not think you were that far to the East.” Derek flushed slightly under the insult. “

    “I am the main councillor to King Peter, my lord uncle. My duties at court do not permit me such an absence. In fact, it is due to matters that urgently required my attention this morning that I was so late and unable to assemble a retinue. I give you my word that I will visit as often as I can spare.” King Finstock looked slightly mollified. Perhaps he hung back from further criticism because he knew there were no other relatives that could aid the aging Hale monarch save Derek. 

    “I think Prince Derek is to be commended for balancing his responsibilities so,” King Christopher cut in. “Surely this is the marker of a good ruler and husband.” The words were praising, but Stiles could swear Derek was almost bristling. “Also, if I may add, I personally think it’s very courageous of you to be attempting to start a family again.” The breath went out of the room for a moment at the overt mention of Derek’s missing family. Although King Christopher’s tone was sympathetic and his expression serious, his blue eyes were shining, glowing, as if he’d just landed a punch that he knew would hurt. And one look at Derek’s face revealed how right he was. 

    “Excuse me,” Derek muttered after a moment, “I have to- I must- I need some fresh air.” He turned to leave the room and Stiles automatically grabbed for his sleeve. 

    “My lord-” she said, but he had slipped out of her grasp and was already headed for the door. She glanced around her at the others, but they all seemed frozen. Well, except for Chris Argent, who looked mighty pleased with himself. 

    “Touchy subject, I suppose. I probably shouldn’t have brought it up.”

     “You don’t say!” Stiles snorted, and, gathering up her skirts, headed for the door. 

     “Stiles!” warned her father, but she was heedless of his judgement. She was going after him. 

     “Prince Derek!” she yelled, running down the hallway,  and almost careened into a maid carrying a basket of laundry, continuing past crowds of gaping courtiers and knights. But although she was practically sprinting and Derek had walked out of the room, he seemed to have vanished without a trace. She stopped, gasping for breath against a balustrade. She yanked the handkerchief out of her cleavage and used it to mop her sweaty brow.   _ Think, Stiles!  _ Where would Derek go? He didn’t even know what quarters he’d been assigned yet. His horse!- the thought struck her suddenly. That horse was the only thing in this palace that belonged to him. She took a breath and headed for the stables- double quick, before anyone could stop her. Outside, the light had faded to early evening and there was a crispness in the air. She ran across the neatly trimmed grass until she reached the main stable. Silhouetted was Greenberg’s page, shovelling the evening hay and whistling. She came wheeling to a halt in front of him. Brown eyes looked up questioningly at her, before he quickly let go off his pitchfork and dropped into a bow. 

    “Princess Stiles,” he said respectfully, although his expression clearly indicated that he was wondering what in heaven’s name she was doing there and why she looked so out of sorts. Stiles tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and tried to put on her best princess tone. 

    "Was Prince Derek here?” she asked, clipped and cool, hoping she sounded appropriately authoritative that he’d answer her immediately. 

    “Yes, your highness,  he left just minutes ago.” 

    “Did he say where?” she demanded, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice.

    “He said he wanted to go for a ride and I saddled his horse for him. He didn’t say where in particular.”

    “You didn’t ask?” Stiles exclaimed, feeling like shaking him. “Doesn’t it seem like an odd time for a ride?”

    “Sure it does. But I’m not in the position to be questioning, and the horse had been fed already, so I didn’t see the harm in it. Your highness.” Stiles buried her face in her hands and wanted to sink down into the grass. He had left, back to the Forbidden Forest, so offended had he been by Chris Argent. She couldn’t fathom why this so upset her when this morning she hadn’t wanted to lay eyes on him at all. Surely this was the best end to things. But somehow- somehow, Stiles had been intrigued by the mystery of Derek Hale, that demanded more unravelling. For once, a brush of excitement had touched her life, and now it had gone just as soon as it came. 

    “Excuse me, your highness?” She realized the stable boy was addressing her, and looked blearily up at him. She knew his name, she had been told it by Greenberg, but it danced away from her memory. There were too many servants in the castle to keep track of. David? Dylan? “He went that way,” he continued, pointing at the riding trail. Stiles felt her spirits rise with the renewal of hope and relief. The riding trail led past the castle into a pleasant meandering of pasture and woodlands. It was a leisure track that finished in a dead-end- Stiles had rode it often enough. If Derek had intended to go home, he would’ve taken the main road. 

    “Thank you! Thank you so much, uh…” she trailed off. 

    “Danny,” he supplied. 

    “Thanks, Danny!” He would be coming back. This wasn’t over, Stiles would figure out just what exactly was going on. She rushed to the base of the riding trail- Derek was still near enough that she could see him. 

    “Prince Derek!” she bellowed after him. Sure, it wasn’t very ladylike. But she wanted him to hear her. She saw him pull his horse to a halt and turn to look behind him, starting at the sight of her. Stiles paused for a moment, unsure exactly of what she wanted to say. “King Christopher is a real ass!” In the faint light, she saw Derek eyebrows rise in amusement, before he lifted his hand in an acknowledging wave at her and turned back to the trail. Stiles stood and watched him until he disappeared into the trees before heading back to the castle.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer wait. Heads up that I probably won't be updating as often as before. I started this fic two years ago, and decided to continue it last month. So I've had quite a backlog to post as I write new material. Now I'm strictly writing fresh, so it's hard for me to gauge exactly how long that will take (my creative muse can be a fickle bitch). 
> 
> Don't blame Stiles for her slutshamey attitude in this, she can't help the way she was brought up. 
> 
> Also I'm so happy for Colton Haynes on his engagement! Wishing him all the best for his future. 
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos guys! Have a good one xx

     Stiles supped in her father’s chambers that night with her siblings and Lord Deaton. King Finstock claimed there was no banquet that night so as to give the guests a chance to recuperate, but Stiles knew it was because he’d decided there’d been quite enough drama for one day and didn’t trust them all in a room together. Surprisingly, Stiles received little to no censure for her antics at the tea, despite the fact that she’d expressly disobeyed her father’s warning. But King Finstock had merely shook his head wearily, as if Stiles’ outbursts were unfortunate but inevitable. 

    “First you run away from him, then you’re chasing after him,” the King sighed over a generous goblet of wine. It was the kind of remark she would expect from Jackson, but her sister was unusually quiet tonight, picking at her dinner with downcast eyes. Perhaps the reality of what being the Empress of the Emerald Isles was actually going to be like was sinking in. “Women are inscrutable,” concluded the King. 

    “I thought it was terribly sweet of you to go after him,” Scott said earnestly, putting an encouraging hand on her arm. Stiles flushed and shrugged her off. Scott smiled at her, mistaking her annoyance for bashfulness. Why did people who were in love insist on seeing romance everywhere? Stiles had gone out of curiosity, not concern. Sure, she may have been momentarily moved by Derek’s stricken expression, but it had been her inquisitive nature that had set her after him. The same nature was responsible for her sneaking to his quarters before dinner and shoving a note under his door imploring him to meet her in the courtyard at half past eleven. She would’ve requested midnight, but it sounded too suggestive, and she didn’t want him to misunderstand the situation. It was unlikely enough already that he would show. This was strictly a reconnaissance mission, to help ascertain information that she deserved to know. It would be risky sneaking out to meet him, but desperate times called for desperate measures. They would be strictly chaperoned during the day, and Stiles needed to have a private and extremely frank conversation with Derek Hale about what the hell was going in. “Although I’m sure,” Scott added with a slight frown, “that King Christopher wasn’t purposefully trying to upset Prince Derek.” Stiles had to resist rolling her eyes. She didn’t know whether Scott was really that clueless or if she just didn’t want to believe anything bad of Prince Allison’s father. In any case, it was obvious that King Christopher was too calculating to have merely innocent intents when he’d made so pointed a statement. Which reminded her that she ought to attempt to get something out of Derek tonight about what was going on between him and the Argents. Stiles sat restlessly, having already scarfed down her supper, waiting impatiently to be excused. She knew she should try to enjoy this evening, for it was her uncle’s last night with them before returning to his homeland on the morrow, but it was difficult when the prospect of tonight’s meeting loomed so closely on the horizon. Finally, the King finished his last bite and dismissed his progeny. They lined up to bid Deaton farewell, for they wouldn’t see him again until Scott’s wedding. When it was Stiles’ turn, she dropped into a curtsy, but her uncle shook his head and pulled her into a hug. Stiles blinked in shock, not expecting such a warm gesture, but then he whispered into her ear: “Be brave, Stiles.” She nodded, wondering once again if he knew more than he let on. He let her go but kept his hands on her shoulders, holding her gaze. 

     “Write me if need be,” he said. “I will give you what council I can.” 

     “Yes, uncle,” she said, but internally she was little reassured. His advice was already vague and confusing when he was here, it would only be less useful coming from miles away. 

      Once Stiles was back in her chambers, she paced aimlessly, waiting in both dread and anticipation for the appointed hour. She didn’t know whether Derek would give her any answers. She didn’t know if he would even be there. Chances were he hadn’t seen the note, and even if he had, most likely he had scoffed and chosen to ignore it.  _ Be that as it may,  _ Stiles told herself,  _ I will go play out my part.  _ When it was at last the height of night, Stiles pulled her coarsest travelling cloak over her nightshift, tucking her hair into the hood and pulling it low over her face. The castle would be virtually empty at this hour, but it was a precaution, just in case anyone should glimpse her from a distance. She crept down the corridor as quiet as she could, ears pricked her any noise, her heart in her throat. When she descended the mahogany staircase, her footsteps creaked on the landing, and a wave of adrenaline sent her pulse racing. She waited for a few panicked seconds, but all was silent. She let out a breath of relief and then continued across the marble floor to the courtyard. Once she was outside, she wrapped her cloak tighter around herself to ward off the chill and glanced fearfully at the surrounding windows. Most were dark, a few held the flickering light of a dim lamp. Even if some late-night reader were to glance outside, surely she would blend in with the shadow of the garden. Thankfully it was a dark night, suitable to her purposes. She sank onto a stone bench to wait for Derek, mind running in circuits over the risks of being caught. It would be better if it were now, when she was alone. She could feign the desire for a late night breath of fresh air. If they were found together, her reputation would be irreparably damaged. Thinking such thoughts reminded her of a night several months ago, a far brighter one than this, when the moon was full and high. Stiles had been up late, writing a letter to her cousin when her inkwell had run dry. Although she usually would go to Scott for a favour, she knew that her sister would be asleep by now whereas Jackson, ever a night owl, would certainly still be up. And so she had pulled on her slippers and headed for Jackson’s chamber, ready to merrily fend off whatever snark she sent her way. She was surprised to see no light streaming from under the door, but simply shrugged and opened it anyways. The triplets from childhood had wandered in and out of each other’s chambers without thought, she had until then seen no reason to change this habit. She had been about to speak when she stopped dead in her tracks. Although Jackson’s lacquer changing screen was partially blocking her view of the bed, she could tell that it was creaking.

    “Jackson,” a man’s voice panted, low and reverential. Stiles felt her jaw drop, and she quickly pushed aside the changing screen. A man lay over her sister, back broad and tan. Jackson’s skin was milky in the moonlight, and Stiles could see her clearly, digging her nails into his arms and crying out her pleasure. Stiles had stood frozen for a moment while her brain caught up to what she was seeing. 

    “What in the name of  _ hell _ !” she shrieked. Jackson’s eyes widened in horror when she noticed Stiles’ presence, and she quickly pushed her lover off her and pulled the blanket over him, even though it revealed her own immodesty. 

    “Stiles, what are you doing here?!” she yelled. 

    “What am  _ I  _ doing here? More like what is  _ he  _ doing here?”  Stiles sputtered back. Jackson’s face twisted with fury. 

    “Get out of here! You little snoop!” Stiles was only too willing to turn on her heels and run back to her own room, feeling shocked and outraged tears welling in her eyes. She couldn’t believe that one of her sisters- much less the perfect Jackson- was breaking the rules of the Church and the trust of the family. She felt upset and shaken, like her world had turned upside down. Jackson stepped into her room minutes later, clad in tightly wrapped silk dressing gown, her arms crossed protectively across her chest. 

    “Stiles-” she started. 

    “Don’t even talk to me!” Stiles snapped, turning away from her. 

    “Look, I can explain-”

    “How can you?” Stiles demanded. Jackson opened her mouth and closed it again, her cheeks red. “I know what I saw,” Stiles hissed. “You spreading your legs like a common whore. And you call yourself a princess!” Jackson’s face crumpled and a pleading look came into her eyes. 

    “Stiles, I’m begging you,” she said, and Stiles was gratified to hear her haughty tone replaced with a fearful one. “You mustn’t tell anyone.” 

    “Any why shouldn’t I?” Stiles huffed. “You have no one to blame but yourself for your actions. The right thing to do would be tell father.” Jackson paled. “If I stay silent, I’m helping you to make a fool of him and dishonour our family. I won’t be pulled into this.” Jackson buried her face in her hands.

    “Please,” she said, muffled and softly, and the iron fury in Stiles’ stomach relented slightly at how broken her usually proud and stubborn sister looked. 

    “Who was he anyway? One of Lord Harris’s sons?” Lord Harris was visiting from a neighbouring holdfast and had brought two strapping sons with him. Even Stiles could admit they were attractive, and they both had been flirting with Jackson at the banquet that night. Apparently she was quite easily won over. To her surprise, Jackson let out a shaky little laugh that almost sounded relieved. Stiles couldn’t fathom any reason why what she’d just said had mitigated her anxiety. 

     “What?” she snapped. 

    “Well, didn’t you see him?” Jackson asked. 

    “No,” Stiles exclaimed in indignation. “It’s not like I was wanting to get a closer look!” 

    “Why not?” Jackson said, a slight mischievous gleam in her eyes. “It was your one chance to see a naked man.” Stiles glared at her. 

    “You’re not doing a very good job at being penitent.”

    “Sorry, sorry,” she said, but her shoulders had relaxed and there was less urgency in her tone. “But you’re not going to tell, are you?” Stiles paused for a moment, thinking. Now that her anger and shock had faded, Stiles felt almost pleased to have this black mark against Jackson’s name. Her sister always acted the part of the perfect princess, preening for the court’s attention and her father’s approval. Now she knew that she wasn’t so flawless after all. It gave her a self-righteous satisfaction, and she almost longed to see the King’s expression if he knew that his favourite daughter had been devaluing herself outside of the marriage bed. But this exposure of Jackson’s weakness also humanized her, and brought out a pity in Stiles and reminded her of the love that she did bear for her, no matter how difficult she was. She didn’t really want to ruin her sister’s life. Well, only half the time, at least. 

    “No,” she said at last. “But only because it would break father’s heart if he knew. So you better watch it. I mean it, Jackson.” Stiles wouldn’t say it, but she was upset for her sister’s sake as well. It was not only her honour she was sullying, but her soul. “I thought you were better than this.” Jackson at least had the decency to hang her head and look ashamed. 

    “Thank you,” she muttered, not meeting her eyes. 

    “If you really want to thank me, you can start by treating me a bit better,” Stiles said, cold and clear, “don’t forget that I can reveal what I know anytime.” Jackson simply nodded, and turned to leave, before stopping and turning back again.

    “What were you doing coming to my chambers anyways?” Stiles had been so disconcerted by the turn of events that it took her a moment to remember. 

    “I needed more ink.” 

    “Do you still want some?” It seemed like Jackson was getting an early start on her nice streak. 

    “Although it would be the least you could do,” Stiles sniffed, “I find that I am too distraught and sickened to be able to write more tonight.” Jackson looked for a moment like she was about to laugh and make some sarcastic remark, but she managed to summon her features into a repentant expression before she finally left. And sure enough, since that night she had behaved far more cordially to Stiles. The first few weeks she had treated Stiles almost deferentially, tiptoeing on glass. Now she was mostly back to her old ways, but if needed, Stiles could always remind her of the hold she had on her.  _ They were right when they said knowledge is power _ , Stiles thought grimly to herself. But she was wrong to equate tonight with that unfortunate episode. Even though she was breaking the rules, she had a perfectly righteous reason to do so. Besides, the man she was meeting was her own fiance, not some illicit stranger. And certainly nothing of that nature was going to take place. 

   “Princess,” a voice behind her said. She whirled around, almost teetering off the bench. He was right behind her, and she hadn’t even heard him approach. 

   “You came,” she said, taken aback despite herself. She stood to face him and brushed down her cloak, trying to regain some dignity. 

   “You came after me,” he said simply, as if it were an answer. And she supposed it was. He has a sense of loyalty, Stiles theorized, or at least fairness. They were silent for a moment, both of them just staring at each other, uncertain on how to take the conversation further. 

   “So,” Stiles said at last, because they had to get somewhere. “You’re a werewolf.” He nodded, curtly. She supposed there was no point in him denying it, not when she’d baldly seen the truth with her own two eyes. “I thought they only existed in the legends.” 

   “That’s what we want you to think,” he said, sighing heavily. “ There are more things in heaven and earth, my lady, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Stiles snorted in surprised laughter.

    “Apparently werewolves still read Shakespeare.”

   “There seems to be no way out of it.” His mouth twitched up in what looked to be a quick smile before his expression turned serious again. He scratched at his head, and Stiles noted that he looked almost embarrassed now. “I suppose you want to know why we’re in this situation.”

   “I must admit it’s crossed my mind once or twice,” she sniped. It occurred to her that maybe she should be more careful addressing a man she was alone in the dark with, especially one that could transform into a terrifying supernatural creature. But she had always had a hidden stubborn streak, and she couldn’t hold back from being mouthy. 

   “Look,” Derek said with a weary sigh. “You should never have seen what you did.” Stiles bristled, irritated by the air of long-suffering condescension he was projecting. 

   “You shouldn’t have gone to the ball on the night of a full moon,” she snapped back.

   “I couldn’t help it,” Derek said defensively. “I had some business there I had to attend to. You can thank your father for setting the date.”

   “Well, I’m sorry he didn’t exactly plan it around guests who may just happen to be werewolves.” Derek looked like he was about to retort and then thought better of it. A good choice, for there was really no arguing with her logic. 

   “So you’re marrying me as some sort of weird revenge thing?” Stiles conjectured. “I mean, I know what I said was thoughtless, but don’t you think that’s a little extreme? I didn’t want to see any of that, you know. Not my idea of a nice fun time.”

   “Definitely not revenge,” Derek assured her, looking a bit confused by her rambling. “Because this is self punishment as well, so that would kind of defeat the purpose.” Stiles couldn’t tell whether he was insulting her or just stating the facts. “I’m marrying you for your silence.” 

   “You’re going to kill me!” Stiles gasped, eyes widening. She could see it: after the wedding she would be neatly disposed of, a false story of her demise crafted for the public, no one knowing any better. 

   “What?! No!” Okay, maybe she’d been reading too many thrillers lately. “Why the hell would you think that?”  

   “I’m not making any assumptions in your favour!” She glared at him. He couldn’t act like his honour was offended when he was a literal werewolf. 

   “I don’t need to kill you to keep your mouth shut,” he said, “marrying you is enough.” Stiles stared at him uncomprehendingly for a few moments before the penny dropped. 

   “A wife’s obligation,” she breathed. Derek nodded. Throughout the western kingdoms, it was forbidden by law for a wife to speak publicly against her husband or her marital house. As Stiles digested the information, she felt a tide of helpless fury rising in her. “That’s it?” she demanded. “I accidentally saw something I didn’t want to that traumatized me pretty much for life, and now my fate is sealed and I have to marry you? I was in the garden because you’d ripped a piece out of me at the ball, mind you. Do you see the common denominator in what the problem is?” She expected Derek to brush her off or even scoff- girls had no choice in marriage anyhow, so she had no grounds on which to be affronted. But instead he hung his head and bit his lip, unable to meet her eyes. 

   “I know it’s not your fault,” he muttered, “and I’m sorry it has to be this way. I can swear to you that you’ll have every comfort and freedom you desire that is possible. I need a marriage in name only; I would not expect that-” he gulped and Stiles realized with amazement that he really was embarrassed. Even in the semi-darkness she could tell he was fighting off a blush. “I would not expect any relations of a marital nature from you.” Stiles just gawked at him, speechless. The entire purpose of these arranged  matches was for the birth of princes. Was he really saying that she could pretty much live as a ward of his house, with the title of wife but none of the responsibilities?

   “Don’t you need an heir?” she demanded. Usually she’d be flustered to discuss such matters so bluntly, but her astonishment had jolted her into straightforwardness. 

   “My sister Cora is already wedded to one of the bannermen of our castle. I would be honoured to pass the throne to any child of hers.” Stiles was surprised to hear that he had a living sister, but tried to mask it. She couldn’t exactly ask him to tell her which members of his family had died tragically and which ones still remained. That certainly fell under the “touchy subject” heading. 

   “And are all of you, uh, werewolves?” she asked after a moment. He nodded tightly.

   “I’ll tell you what you need to know, when the time comes.” She said nothing, but inside she wondered if he was hiding something from her. It didn’t quite add up. She could easily speak up now, he couldn’t stop her. Maybe he thought he could intimidate her until the wedding. Or maybe he wasn’t worried because he doubted anyone would believe her. Which, fair enough. She’d probably sound stark raving. Although she had an inkling that maybe King Christopher had been trying to tell her that he would corroborate her story if she did come forward. Speaking of which…

   “So, the Argents don’t exactly seem to be your favourite people on earth.”

   “You don’t know the half of it,” Derek muttered darkly. She waited, but he volunteered nothing further. She could tell from his expression that she shouldn’t push him, that if she did she’d be stepping into dangerous territory. But still, she wasn’t just being nosy, it did concern her. And her sister.   “I know you’re worried,” he said at last. “I’ve noticed you and Princess Scott are close.” 

   “How astute,” she said, slightly clipped. “Although you already proved that at the ball.”  _ You’re the piece that has never fit,  _ a horrible echo in her head, one she felt she would never be free of. Derek flinched.

   “I must ask your pardon for those remarks, Princess,” he said, sounding embarrassed but genuine. “I spoke out of turn. I was talking out of anger, and it wasn’t true.”

   “It was,” she snorted, “I can’t fault you for your honesty.” Seeing he was about to reply, she quickly rushed on. She wasn’t asking for his pity. “Is this animosity between your houses enough to cause problems between Scott and I?”

   “I don’t know,” said Derek. “I don’t want anyone hurt who isn’t involved, but I warn you, Chris Argent isn’t afraid of using innocents.” Stiles shuddered. There was something cold in his tone, detached in a way that seemed too purposeful. 

   “What if I just swore not to tell?” she asked softly, knowing it was pointless. 

   “How can I trust you?”

   “How can I trust  _ you _ ?” Stiles replied. “You’re asking me to take your word for all of this.” 

   “It’s not about  _ trust _ ,” he said. “We’ve kept the Hale House secret for centuries, though it’s been no easy task. We can’t leave any loose ends hanging, no matter how harmless it might seem. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that lives depend on this.” He almost sounded like he was pleading with her, though she didn’t know why. She suddenly felt very tired. There were a hundred unasked questions on the tip of her tongue, but her head was already flooded with all she had learned tonight. She heard the distant sound of a window sill clunking shut, and although she knew they weren’t in immediate danger, it brought her back to reality. 

   “This meeting was risky enough,” she said. “We shouldn’t tarry here any longer.” He didn’t reply, and Stiles was just about to leave when he finally spoke.

   “If it was safe to trust, I would trust you before others, Princess Stiles. Goodnight.” He turned into the shadows and was gone in seconds. Stiles stood a moment before turning to head back inside, trying to sort out the mess of her thoughts. Really, that conversation had gone better than could be hoped. The terms he’d laid out were far more agreeable than what she’d get from any other arranged marriage. He had offered her independence, safety, and freedom from the childbed. Sure, he and his family were still werewolves, but Stiles had to admit that the mystery of it appealed to the part of her that relished drama and read fantasy novels excessively. He’d even promised to try and protect Scott and Stiles from the feud (for surely that was what it was) between the Argents and the Hales. All in all, things could be much worse.  _ I should be happy _ , she told herself as she finally settled into her bed,  _ I should be grateful.  _ But although she didn’t know why it should be, there was an ache in her heart that felt curiously like disappointment. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here you are guys! thanks as always for reading. next update will be in about two weeks. Love!

    Stiles woke up the next morning to the clatter of a breakfast tray being set down none too gently by Melissa. She blinked up blearily at the ceiling, feeling irritated and groggy, as though she hadn’t slept a wink. Maybe she had talked later with Derek than she’d intended, or maybe her thoughts had been in such a turmoil afterwards that they’d prevented her from any real rest.

    “Breakfast in bed?” Stiles queried. “What have I done to deserve that?”

    “Nothing, believe me,” Melissa replied with an exasperated sigh. “You slept in well past breakfast and I decided that, however tempting it might be, today is not the day I’ll let you starve.”

   “Thank you, Melissa,” Stiles said, batting her eyelashes and reaching for some toast.

    “Don’t thank me, that time may come soon enough,” she muttered, but she was hiding a smile. She was terribly pleased that Stiles would be marrying along with her sisters, and was inclined to indulge her more than she usually did, even if she had to compensate with sarcastic remarks. Happy she was, but sad as well, wrapped in the bittersweet realization of the triplets’ childhood coming to a definite end. Even though she tried to hide it, Stiles had several times glimpsed her wiping sudden tears from her eyes. It made Stiles realize the extent of her affection for Melissa, and reminded her to cherish these last few months ere her life would be forever changed.

    “So what’s going on today?” she garbled through a mouthful of food.

    “The day has been going on for some time now,” Melissa said with strained patience, “And please don’t talk with your mouth full.” Stiles would’ve apologized but she was still eating toast, so she decided it was safer to stay silent. “The Argents are departing at noon, you’ll be expected to be at the gates to see them off. As long as you have yourself respectable by then, you’re not scheduled for any commitments.” Stiles sighed in contentment and stretched her toes. After the stress of yesterday, she heartily embraced the rare prospect of a mainly obligation-free day.

    “Where are Scott and Jackson?”

    “Princess Scott is taking tea with the Argents before they leave, and Princess Jackson is on a morning ride.” Jackson had taken an interest in riding several months back, and was now something of an equestrian. Stiles had been a bit surprised at first, as horses weren’t considered a very ladylike occupation, but she supposed it suited her sister’s competitive and energetic streak. “Princess Scott breakfasted with them as well,” Melissa sighed. “Only a day, and they’re nigh on inseparable.”

    “It bodes well for a happy marriage, does it not?”

    “Surely,” Melissa agreed, “but it means my work is cut out for me until the wedding. At this rate, I’ll have to stand sentry outside her door every night.” Stiles decided not to tell Melissa that Scott was probably the sister she needed to worry the least about engaging in questionable behaviour at night. Once she had eaten and dressed, she decided to take a walk along the ramparts before she was due to send off the Argents. It was pleasant and unseasonably warm outside, and Stiles took deep breaths of the fresh , clean air, feeling some of her earlier tension seep away. She wondered where Derek was, and hurriedly dismissed the thought. He’d said he would grant her her independence, and he obviously valued his own. After all the hours of forced socializing yesterday, he probably wanted to be left alone. Besides, why would she want to know where he was, anyways? It’s not like she wanted to spend any more time with him than necessary. She smiled when she saw Sir Stilinski making the rounds with a few of his men. She hadn’t spoken with him since the news of her engagement had broke.

    “Sir Stilinski,” she called with an enthusiastic wave.

    “Princess Stiles,” he acknowledged with a bow, before turning back to his men. “Complete the round and then head down to the gates to make sure everything is going smoothly. We want the Argents’ departure to be incident free.”

    “Yes, sir.” Once they had bowed to Stiles, they headed on their way, and Sir Stilinski addressed her again.

    “Let me take this chance to congratulate you on your engagement, your highness.”

    “Thank you.”

    “Did I not tell you that you would have no difficulty finding a match?” he teased. Stiles rolled her eyes indulgently. “Mind you,” he continued with a slight frown. “I wasn’t exactly expecting Derek Hale.”

    “Honestly, I don’t think any of us were,” Stiles agreed. There was no point denying it, he’d been at the ball. He’d also found her soaked to the bone and traumatized in the garden hours later. Sir Stilinski remained silent, but she could tell he was holding his words.

    “I would bid you speak, sir, if there is something on your mind,” Stiles said gently.

    “It is just…” Sir Stilinski trailed off, looking conflicted.

    “Yes?” she prompted.

    “I was disgusted by the way Prince Derek treated you at the ball,” he said in a rush, obviously relieved to say it but also aware how inappropriate it was to speak against a member of the aristocracy. “And I am concerned that he will treat you much the same during your marriage.” His eyes showed his worry, and his face seemed older and lined in the glare of the sunlight. Stiles felt tears threatening to well up behind her eyes. Sir Stilinski had always been kind to her, and now he was going against convention to voice his concern for her. “Not that I would ever presume to criticize a decision made by His Grace, whose wisdom is greater than mine.”

    “You know that isn’t true, you’ve been in council meetings with him.”

    “Your highness!” he admonished, his tone one of shocked propriety, but she knew him well enough to know he was biting back a smile.

    “I thank you for your concern for my welfare,” Stiles said sincerely. “You are one of few who has expressed it. But I must assure you that you need not worry for me. Prince Derek spoke out of turn that night, he admits it himself. He is a severe man, but not a cruel one. I will be alright.” She could not explain to him that it was to be a marriage of convenience in the truest sense, but she did want to reassure him as best she could.

    “But will you be happy, Princess?”  And how she wished she could reassure him in this as well.

    “A woman’s happiness is a chance, not a guarantee,” she said after a moment.

    “And especially a princess’s s,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “Still, I suppose he has his reasons for his behaviour. It can’t be an easy thing to live with.” Stiles stared at him. Sir Stilinski couldn’t _possibly_ know, could he?

    “What can’t?” she asked.  He blinked at her, a bit taken aback.

    “Well, his family, of course.”

    “Oh, yes, of course,” she agreed, nodding vigorously. “Very tragic.”

    “I imagine the pain of it is difficult for him. And more so the guilt.”

    “Guilt?” He’d lost her a second time. “Whyever should he feel guilty?” Now it was his turn to stare at her.

    “Your highness, do you not know?”

    “Know what? What happened to his family? I mean, I know they all died…” she trailed off. When she thought of it, she had no idea how the majority of the Hale family had met their demise.

    “That is probably for the best, your highness. It is too unpleasant for a well-bred lady like you to hear.” She rolled her eyes again, this time in annoyance.

    “Are you serious? Tell me!”

    “If your lord father has judged it unfit to tell you, it is certainly not my place to do so, your highness.”

    “Sir Stilinski,” she pleaded, “I am to marry this man! Surely I should know the truth before many others.” His expression seemed swayed but not convinced. “How can I hope to understand him, or ever share in his joys, if I cannot share in his sorrows?” A bit rich, but she thought it would sound heartfelt enough to appeal to the knight. Sure enough, it did the trick.

    “Very well,” he said slowly. “But you mustn’t say I was the one that told you.”

    “Of course not.” Sir Stilinski heaved a heavy sigh before speaking.

    “They have always been a close House, the Hales. Not ones for alliances or treaties, and neither for war or discord. They were content to be isolated deep within their woods, away from the main roads and the passage of travellers. Away from the passage of time, it seemed, for legend has it centuries passed for them in much the same way. Until several years ago, not even a decade past.” Stiles tried to do the math in her head. Derek couldn’t be older than his late twenties. So this would put him where?  His late teens, just the cusp of twenty. Around her age. She shivered, unbidden thoughts of her family coming to some great and terrible end entering her head. “Bandits had impinged on the privacy of the Hale kingdom. A full camp of them, wily and armed, match enough for the Hale forces. As the Hales took no allies, they were left alone to defend their kingdom against raids and looting. As the months went by, the bandits pushed closer to the castle, and the bloodshed intensified. It was at this point that the Hales, feeling their strength threatened, agreed to negotiate peace terms with the bandits. They were promised safe passage no matter the outcome, and so they agreed to meet at a neutral halfway point, with only a small guard of sworn knights, as per the terms of negotiation. Doubtless they thought their strength significant enough to deal with the posse of bandits should things go awry.” Sir Stilinski’s face hardened. “But their trust was rewarded with treachery. The rest of the bandits waited in the forest, and overpowered the Hales. They were lashed to trees, and burned alive.” Stiles eyes widened in horror, her mind full of terrible images of the dead of night and fear and flames licking away the chill of the air and replacing it with death. She had not imagined anything so horrible when Derek had first told her of his family. “But though they finished the Hales, they could not conquer the kingdom. The remaining army fought with renewed rage and vigour, and fended them off. It is said Prince Derek fought with the strength of ten men, fuelled by his fury.”  Stiles was silent for a moment, taking it in.

    “Why should he feel guilty then?” she demanded. She felt a surge of indignation on his behalf. “Survivor’s guilt? If so, he should not torture himself so. If anything, he should feel pride in how he fought with valour!”

    “Your highness,” Sir Stilinski said softly, “It was Prince Derek who brokered the agreement with the emissary that led to the meeting. He stayed behind to supervise their troops, and unknowingly sent his parents and uncles to their death.”

    “No,” Stiles gasped, unable to believe it. No wonder he walked around like the weight of the world was on his back. “How could he have been so foolish?” She could not imagine a Derek young and naive enough to make such an idiotic decision. What had he said to her last night? _If it was safe to trust_. Apparently there had been a time when he believed it was. Sir Stilinski looked uncomfortable. “What?” Stiles demanded. “What do you know? I can tell you know something.”

    “Your highness, I fear there is no way I can tell you. It is indelicate, and would certainly be extremely distressing for your emotional constitution, which I fear I’ve imperilled enough.”

    “My emotional constitution is quite intact, sir,” she snapped. “And I wasn’t asking you to tell me, I was ordering you.” She regretted having to use her status like this, but he was being quite impossible. He gave her a level look, as if communicating silently that she would regret not taking his good council.

    “Word has it, your highness,” he said at last, “That the emissary that the bandits sent to talk with Prince Derek was a woman. A woman of great intellect and capacity. And beauty as well, or so word has it.” Stiles just gaped at him. She could not believe that a woman would be allowed to play any such role in political negotiations. She was so taken aback by this that she did not realize the obvious implication in Sir Stilinski’s words.

    “A woman?” she exclaimed.

    “Yes. It suited their nefarious purposes. I’m sure you can conjecture what I mean without my saying it, your highness.”

    “Sorry?” Sir Stilinski stared at her, either thinking her a simpleton or extremely protected.

    “It is said she convinced him most thoroughly, convinced him so much that he abandoned his good judgement, and, blinded by her, agreed to a deal that led to the death of his kin.” Stiles gaped at him and then flushed brilliantly as the realization sunk in.

    “Oh,” she murmured softly.

    “I did tell you, Princess, that it would upset you. It is sometimes best not to know.”

    “I’m fine,” she insisted, although she didn’t know if she was. “I knew he had a past.” _Yeah, but not that much of one!_

    “So you see why I was anxious when I learned that you were engaged to this man, with bad luck cursed upon his house and he the dark sheep that brought it.” Stiles nodded miserably, for there wasn’t much she could say to that.  Apparently he’d abandoned attempting to avoid speaking negatively of Princes, or at least one Prince Derek Hale.  “Although,” Sir Stilinski said, his voice kinder, “This time, despite being undeserving, he has managed to secure the hand of a lady of immeasurable virtue and worth. Perhaps you are exactly what the Hale House needs.”

    “Perhaps,” Stiles said, but her mind was racing and her heart wasn’t in it.

    “Now if you’ll excuse me, your highness, the hour grows close to noon, and I must go oversee the preparations for the Argents’ departure. If you want something done right, do it yourself and all that,” he sighed wearily.

    “Of course, sir. Thank you for taking me into your confidence, and for your kindness. I cannot thank you enough for either.” He bowed low and then was gone. Stiles stood at the rampart, completely still. She knew she should head inside and prepare, but her chest felt tight, like she couldn’t breathe. Although the sun was at the centre of the sky and shining down on her back, she shivered, and the sweet spring breeze seemed to whisper ominously in her ears. _Derek_ , she thought desperately, _who are you?_

***

    Stiles managed to get herself down to the gates on time to bid the Argents farewell. But although her head was bowed and her hands demurely crossed, her thoughts were racing. Just when she thought she had Derek somewhat figured out, she was thrown a whole new curveball, and she felt like she was starting at zero again. Dozens of questions flitted through her mind- did the bandits who murdered the Hale family know their double identity? Is that why they invaded in the first place? Was the kingdom still under threat? She already knew more than Sir Stilinski should’ve told her, and more than Derek would probably want her to. But it wasn’t enough- she wanted to know everything, every piece, and how it all fit together. Damn her inquisitive nature! She’d never been any good at minding her own business. She supposed it could be blamed on the hundreds of books she’d read, even though she’d been chided for it. Just as she’d been warned, they’d awakened a yearning in her, a hunger for adventure and intrigue and excitement that couldn’t be sated by the decorous life of a princess. And now that she was finally getting a taste of such things, part of her was thrilled even as she was terrified. _This is no story,_ she reminded herself. _There are real lives at stake here; yours, to mention one._ And at this rate, someone was liable to get hurt. She was so lost in her thoughts that it took her a moment to realize Chris Argent was speaking to her.

    “But where is Prince Derek, you highness? I was so hoping for the chance to say goodbye,” he asked, his brows drawn in the picture of innocent confusion. He lifted her hand to press a courteous kiss to it, but she was savvy enough to realize she was being mocked. The main subject of her whirling thoughts was, of course, conspicuously absent. He wasn’t obliged to be present, but the unspoken laws of etiquette silently demanded it. Prince Lydia stood dutifully beside Jackson, his parents close behind, but the spot next to Stiles was empty of any fiances. Stiles couldn’t blame him. It was more than faintly ridiculous that it was expected that he should stand here and bid a false bon voyage to a man he obviously despised.  She didn’t know why, but she felt a rush of defensive indignation on his behalf. King Christopher’s air of amused superiority was grating on her nerves, and she was irritated by the thought of everyone scoffing and judging him behind their masks of tailored acceptability.

    “Regrettably, Prince Derek has other pressing matters to attend to at this time. He did request that I pass on his best wishes for your journey home, and thank you for the delightful conversation yesterday. I pray you will accept our humble apologies.” She curtsied graciously, but it had been a struggle to keep her voice calm and cool. When she glanced up, she was vindicated to see a flash of annoyance flash over his face, just for a moment, but there all the same. Of course, Derek Hale had said no such thing; he hadn’t even spoken to her that day, and if he had, it would certainly not have been to say that. She knew it and King Christopher knew it, but he could hardly publicly scold her as a liar. He merely inclined his head, his lips a thin line.

    “But of course, your highness. There is no need for apologies. All the very best to the two of you.” So he hadn’t missed the plural possessive. Well, so be it. _It’s time to figure out where you stand, sweetling._ That’s what he’d whispered to her yesterday, a creepy threat of the first degree. Maybe it was too early to be throwing lots in, but she’d put hers with Derek over Chris Argent any day. Which was a good thing, considering their lots were together in quite a permanent way for the foreseeable future whether she liked it or not. Then his attention was off her, and although she breathed easier, she still felt the shadow of something icy. It was strange- she did not desire his approval, and yet it was though she’d just taken a fall from grace. It was a power he had, she realized, a power to be reckoned with, one that could be even more persuasive than charm. He turned to Allison and laid a paternal hand on his shoulder.

    “Fare you well, my son. I trust you will make us proud.”

    “I’ll try my best, father.”

    “Don’t forget where you come from. Don’t forget what you are.”

    “Never, your grace.” And with a last nod of the head, Chris turned to Victoria, and, taking her hand, headed for their steeds. Stiles was glad when all the carriages and horses of the Argent retinue finally headed off, and she could swear that some tension had gone out of the general atmosphere as well. She sighed and shook her head before turning back towards the castle for what she hoped would be an afternoon of undisturbed reading. But before she could take more than two steps, an unexpected voice called her back.

    “Princess Stiles,” Prince Allison called. Stiles swivelled around to stare at him in bewilderment, wondering why he was addressing her. Allison shifted on his feet and pulled a stray lock of hair behind his ear before speaking. “My father can be quite intense,” he said hesitatingly. “I can see how it might be slightly disconcerting to a stranger. But I assure you, he is a good man. One of the best.” Stiles was disinclined to agree, but she was touched nonetheless by Allison’s awkward attempt to apologize in a roundabout way for her family’s behaviour without actually confessing any fault on their honour.

    “You have nothing to excuse,” Stiles said kindly. It was true, Allison didn’t- Chris Argent, on the other hand, certainly did. Scott, who had been watching the exchange nervously, no doubt fearing a testy riposte from Stiles, visibly relaxed.

    “King Christopher is authoritative, like any ruler should be,” she said, laying a hand on Allison’s arm. If she had any of her own misgivings about her future father-in-law, her tone didn’t betray them. Stiles gave a curt nod and made a move to leave, but this time she was stopped by Scott.

    “Say, Stiles, Prince Allison and I were going to go picnic in the rose garden. Do you want to join us?” Stiles had to resist rolling her eyes. It was so _Scott_ to invite her along to thirdwheel without even realizing that was what she was doing.

    “Oh no,” she protested. “I wouldn’t intrude.”

    “It would be no intrusion,” Allison interjected. “We would be glad for the company.” Scott nodded emphatically. Stiles felt her resolve wavering. She didn’t really want to be alone for the afternoon, and even if they were inviting her out of pity, their enthusiasm seemed flatteringly genuine. Stiles couldn’t deny it- Prince Allison was just so goddamn _nice._ She could see why Scott was so smitten. She wanted to return the friendliness and not come off as standoffish. They were being kind to her, and she wouldn’t let her own jealousy and bitterness turn it into something ugly. Surely she could spend time with the happy couple and feel nothing more than uncomplicated happiness for them. Surely she could be strong enough to do that.

    “Sure,” she said after a moment. “Thank you.” Allison turned to Jackson and Lydia.

    “Princess Jackson, Prince Lydia, would you like to accompany us as well?” Stiles sighed internally- so much for a pleasant time. The two of them exchanged a look before Jackson gave a nod.

    “Of course we shall. It’s too lovely a day to be inside.” The five of them trailed off towards the vast gardens behind the castle, servants trailing behind with hampers of food and blankets. Scott hung back to walk with her.

    “So,” she whispered. “Did Prince Derek really tell you to say all that?”

    “Like hell he did.” Scott looked shocked for a moment, but then her mouth quirked up into a slight smirk.

    “Oh, you,” she said, shaking her head.

    “What?” Stiles exclaimed. “It’s called thinking on your feet.” Scott laid her head on her shoulder for a brief moment.

    “So loyal already.” Stiles snorted.

    “Hardly.” Of course it wasn’t loyalty that had prompted her to make excuses for him. It had been  a little white lie in order to bridge a moment of potential social awkwardness, nothing more. She had been thinking of her own comfort and reputation. Despite her fears that she’d feel like the odd one out during the picnic, considering the others were paired up, she was surprised to find that she was enjoying herself. Scott and Allison both made an effort to include her in the conversation that was so skilled it seemed like no effort at all; Prince Lydia, once relaxed, was actually very funny and intelligent, making witty little remarks that Stiles could appreciate, and Jackson was behaving mildly enough to be tolerable. Stiles had finished her lunch and was lounging around in the sun, appreciating the casual atmosphere compared to the formal tenseness of the last few days, when Derek Hale stepped out of a rose bush. He froze at the sight of them, and no one said anything for a beat. Stiles was about to mutter “just let him go,” but before she could do so Lydia called out to him.

    “Finished attending to your pressing matters, what?” Derek stared at him, his eyebrows a dark furrow of confusion.

    “Your fiancee covered for you, my lord,” Jackson provided drily. Stiles glared in desperate fury at her. She didn’t know how kindly Derek would take it that she’d essentially lied about him. Sure enough, Derek shot her a questioning glance.

    “Wait, so you mean you didn’t have pressing matters to attend to?” Scott said after a moment, looking genuinely confused.

    “Pressing matters of not being there,” Jackson murmured, looking down at her nails. Derek’s silence was pretty much a confirmation.

    “Brilliant,” Lydia commented, shaking his head in admiration. “I should get Jackson to cover for me next time. I’ll never have to attend another stuffy formal event again.”

    “What? And I’ll have to?” Jackson demanded.

    “Sorry, Princess.”

    “I would never be induced to lie, my lord,” Jackson teased. Stiles bit back a laugh. That was a good one.

    “I can be very convincing, I’ve been told.” Jackson looked away prettily as if she was too delicate to understand the meaning. What an actress. “Really, though,” Lydia said, turning back to Derek. “I can’t blame you. I would’ve done the same if I thought I could get away with it.”

    “What did you say?” he demanded, turning to Stiles. Stiles cleared her throat, buying herself some time. She couldn’t ignore a direct question.

    “Only that you couldn’t bit the Argents farewell as you had pressing matters to attend to, but that gave them your apologies and wished them well on their journey,” she muttered in a rush.

    “Don’t forget that you thanked him for the lovely conversation on Prince Derek’s behalf as well,” Prince Allison chimed in. Stiles whipped around to look at him. Was he actually being arch? Derek let out an odd snort which Stiles realized belatedly was actually a _laugh_. She stared at him in disbelieving amazement. Who knew that Derek Hale was capable of making such a sound?

    “I’m sure he took that well,” Derek scoffed.

    “He was charmed,” Stiles agreed, “by which I mean he stared daggers at me.” Derek actually smiled and shook his head in amusement. Would miracles never cease?

    “I can now be assured that the Princess will provide satisfactory answers for me even in my absence.” Stiles was surprised to find heat rising to her cheeks- was he actually thanking her?

    “Please, Prince Derek, sit down with us a while,” Scott implored. “There’s still some refreshment left.” Stiles turned  to make a cut throat, cease and desist, abort mission gesture at her, which her sister ignored. Derek was not the kind of guy who wanted to make small talk and drink tea, especially with the son of the House he hated.

    “Okay,” Derek said with a shrug, and she was given about the fifth shock of her life that day. Then he sat down, right beside Stiles, and she could smell him, a faint odour of sweat and cedar that was surprisingly agreeable.

    “Have a pastry, my lord,” Scott said sweetly, and passed him a raspberry tart. Derek took a bite of it, and the conversation drifted elsewhere.

    “Thank you,” Derek whispered to her when the others weren’t paying attention. And yes, he actually _was_ thanking her.

    “It was nothing,” she muttered back with a shrug.

    “I just couldn’t be there,” he said.

    “I understand,” she assured him, and maybe she didn’t, but she wanted to. There was so much about his life that she wanted to understand, if only he would tell her. The rest of the picnic flowed quite well, with few awkward pauses and even some conversational input from Derek. In fact, he was actually being more talkative than Stiles, which was highly unusual. But she found herself feeling oddly silent, her heart pounding in her ribs, able to do little more than lift her teacup to her lips and nod when it was required. Perhaps it was the oddness of the situation, all six of them sitting together and talking almost as though they were friends. Perhaps it was Derek sitting so tangibly beside her,  not stiff and uncomfortable like he’d been yesterday, but relaxed and so very close to content it was maddening. Or maybe it was that Derek was both hers and not; hers in name but not in reality, and no one here was any the wiser. But she was heavy with the knowledge, and her mind knew not what to make of it, and her heart continued to pound its furious rabbit rhythm, and he sat next to her, talking, eating, breathing, an inch and forever away.  


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So here it is. A full month later. Sorry guys, writer's block is a bitch. Points to whoever can catch the misappropriated Lord of the Rings quote. Couldn't help myself ;). Plus one from Swan Princess, if you watched that movie as a kid (I think I watched it a hundred times). I won't give a guess on when the next chapter will be up, as we saw how well that went last time, but I promise it'll happen. It might be a while, as I just started working on my first Outsiders fic, so I'll be dividing my writing time. I'm pretty excited about it, so I hope if you're part of that fandom you'll read it and enjoy it when it's ready to publish. I can assure you I have have no intention of abandoning this fic, whether it takes me long or short to write it I will finish it. Thanks as always for reading, much xx

    The picnic turned out to be the extent of interaction Stiles had with Derek for the rest of that week. If she’d thought they’d reached a d ét ente, or at least some sort of understanding, it seemed she was wrong. If anything, he was more withdrawn than before, surly, almost. She didn’t speak to him, in fact, she barely even  _ saw  _ him. He spent the majority of his hours riding alone along the pastures and the meadows of the castle’s grounds, or even further, beyond the gates, into the outlying townships and woodlands of Beacon Hills. Stiles couldn’t really blame him- she assumed he spent his time so because he couldn’t stand being pent up in the castle all day. She would do the same if she could, but she had never been allowed unchaperoned anywhere further than the inner gardens. In fact, she had only seldom been beyond the gates and into their kingdom- there was rarely any occasion for it. But while there  were some who raised their eyebrows and shook their heads at Derek’s behaviour, he was free to go where he willed without being questioned- in fact, being both a man grown and a crown prince, it would be discourteous and insulting for King Finstock to put any limit on his freedom.  Stiles had to admit the envy she felt when she caught sight of him in the corridors, returning him from a day’s excursion, tanned from the sun and smelling of woodsmoke and soil, scents not often caught in the rarified air of the castle. He’d barely even been here a week, and yet he’d already seen more of her home than she ever had or probably ever would. When he wasn’t outside, he’d be sequestered in his chambers, the door firmly shut and bolted, its thick mahogany surface a loud refusal of entry. Stiles had lingered outside of it more than once, wanting to knock, not daring to knock, above all not knowing  _ why  _ she wanted to knock, or what she’d expect if he should answer. Each time she’d walked away without doing anything, relief and disappointment battling in her heart. The few times Derek came to the dining hall, he would not sit beside Stiles nor would he stay for longer than it took him to finish his meal.  _ It’s not fair _ , she thought, jabbing the needle through her embroidery with unnecessary force, and then crying out in pain as she pricked her finger. She threw the damaged work onto the carpet and furiously wiped frustrated tears from her eyes, smearing blood across her cheek. She took a deep breath, irritated with herself because she knew the tears weren’t only caused by the pain but also the built-up disappointment and hurt simmering in her mind. She knew she was weak and naive and stupid to feel these things, but here alone in her chambers there was no point denying them. Perhaps the conversation in the courtyard had been closure enough for Derek, but for Stiles it was nowhere near adequate. To her it had felt like the beginning of something, and here he was treating it like an ending. Perhaps now that they had cleared up the most glaring confusions and misunderstandings between them, he had no further use for her.  _ I need a marriage in name only _ . She remembered his words, how clear he’d made it that this would be a union of the utmost practicality, a means to safeguard the protection of a legal loophole, free even of the required bedding that most political marriages demanded. But even if this was a marriage of convenience, was she so easily dismissable? Surely now that she knew his secrets and would take on his name, he could at least trust her as a confidante, a companion, perhaps even as a friend. She would never expect him to pay attention to her as a woman- she would not presume to attract him when she’d never managed such a feat on any man- but to have even her company passed over smarted painfully. It was a rejection of the small scrap of pride she had, a pride in her intellect and quick tongue and a cache of knowledge that was extensive for a coddled princess. But it seemed she simply was not interesting to Derek Hale in any capacity. Stiles frustration faded into morose self-pity. She could imagine the lonely years ahead of her in a marriage empty even of friendship, isolated in the Hale kingdom among strangers of an unnatural kind, without even her sister for comfort.

    “Stiles?” Said sister had just swept into her room, blinking in confusion at the scene before her. “Are you alright?” 

    “Quite,” Stiles said, drawing herself up to her full height and attempting to look dignified and collected. Which, judging from Scott’s face, was an entirely failed endeavour.

    “What’s going on?” Scott asked, hands on her hips, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. 

    “I’m just having a little trouble with my stitching.” 

    “Really? Looks fine to me,” Scott said, a laugh dancing at her lips. “That’s just how I want all my sewing projects to end up- a bloody mess on the floor.” Stiles couldn’t help it, she snorted in laughter, and Scott joined in. Stiles wiped the last trace of tears from her eyes, feeling the frustrated tension she’d been feeling seep out of her, replaced with a resigned weariness. Scott walked towards her, stopping to bend and pick up the abandoned needlepoint. Examining it, she frowned when she noted that not only had Stiles bled on it, she’d also torn it when she threw it. She set it back down, obviously realizing that it was unsalvageable even by  seamstress of her skill. 

    “I think you and needlepoint are just not meant to be, Scott said with a fond eyeroll. “You’ll just have to get someone else to sew you baby blankets.” 

    “All those years, wasted!” Stiles sighed dramatically. 

    “Well, I’d be happy to send you an entire wardrobe for any nephew or niece of mine, God willing it be a nephew first.”

    “God willing,” Stiles agreed, knowing it was useless to tell Scott there would no forthcoming babies of any sex. She realized that people would surely assume she was barren when the years passed and she failed to produce an heir. Another failure they would add to an already extensive list. And a final one, for in the Western kingdoms a woman who could not reproduce was a woman without worth. She would be written off as a shameful disgrace to her husband and her family. She sighed and rubbed her temples. She shouldn’t waste her time with other people’s thoughts, especially ones they weren’t even thinking yet. Besides, Derek was doing her a kindness few men would. Surely the malicious words of strangers would be more easily borne than obligatory relations and the pressure to bear a son.  _ Wait a minute,  _ Stiles thought,  _ would the children be werewolves too _ ? She immediately pushed the thought away.  _ Idiot, there’s no point wondering about something that’s not going to happen. _

    “Why are you blushing?” Scott queried, kneeling to take her sister’s hands in hers and look up at her. 

    “I’m not!” Stiles said quickly, desperately trying to fight her flushed cheeks. 

    “Surely the mere mention of you and Prince Derek’s future brood shouldn’t be enough to get your blood rushing,” she teased. 

    “Scott!” Stiles exclaimed, yanking her hands free. “You sound as bad as father!” 

    “Believe me, it would take far more practice to get to that level.”

    “You’re not wrong,” Stiles muttered, unable to deny it. 

    “I’m just teasing,” Scott said gently. “I want to see you happy.” Stiles looked away, unable to meet her sister’s searching gaze. Scott was silently offering her the chance to air whatever was bothering her, but for the first time she couldn’t take her into her confidence. The secrets she now possessed had too much consequence for girlish whispering. She laid her hand on top of Scott’s again.

    “Thank you, Scott,” she said, smiling softly. “You’ve always been so good to me.” Scott looked confused for a split second, but then she returned the smile. 

    “Of course,” she said simply. “I love you.” Stiles was always amazed at the way Scott make such honest proclamations of affection without any embarrassment or pretense; just quietly and sincerely, as though it were nothing to admit. She supposed it was part of her sister’s charm. Stiles wished she were the same, but alas, her heart and her mouth shared no such easy connection.

    “Anyways, why did you come into my chambers and so rudely interrupt me in the first place?” Stiles said with false indignation. 

    “A thousand apologies, Princess,” Scott simpered back. “If I’d known you were in the middle of such important work, I would’ve have left you to it.” She stood and brushed down her skirts. “Father requires our presence in the main hall,” she continued in her normal voice. “Lord Boyd has sent a delegation bearing engagement gifts for the three of us, etiquette demands we should be present while father accepts the gifts on our behalf.” Stiles nodded, rising as well. It wasn’t surprising that the lords of the outlying fiefdoms were using the triplet’s engagement as an opportunity to suck up to King Finstock.

    “And the Princes?” she asked, dreading the prospect of the King demanding their presence. God only knew where Prince Derek was at this moment, and woe betide her if she had to somehow track him down. 

    “He said their presence wasn’t necessary,” Scott replied with a shrug. “I told Allison to enjoy some peace and quiet; I know he finds the constant sequence of formal events somewhat stifling.” 

    "What, do the Argents run their castle differently?” Stiles questioned. Certainly there were more formal obligations than usual considering they were in the midst of a courtship, but surely a prince like Allison would be used to the strict daily schedule of royal life. 

    “You’ve met King Christopher, he isn’t much for tradition.” 

    “That he isn’t,” Stiles agreed, remembering his rather relaxed mien towards servants and customs and the permissiveness he treated his wife with. 

    “I do not mind it,” Scott mused. “I think life with the Argents will be most refreshing. Freeing, in a sense.” Stiles suppressed a snort. Freeing, sure. Freedom to be deranged. But she didn’t say anything- it wasn’t worth upsetting Scott to make a negative remark about her future in-laws, and besides, she shouldn’t be doing anything to foster animosity where she was trying to avoid it. 

    “Well, let’s get going,” she remarked instead. “As blase as King Christopher may be, father isn’t, and he won’t abide tardiness.” Scott nodded, grimacing in agreement but looking relatively unconcerned.  _ Of course she isn’t _ Stiles thought irritation.  _ It’s me father will be angry with, as always.  _ She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the resentment. It seemed unfair to hold such an ugly emotion against one so sweet as Scott. She took her sister’s proffered hand and they rushed off to the main hall together, walking as fast as dignity would allow. Sure enough, King Finstock scowled at them as a guard ushered them into the imposing stone hall. 

    “What an honour it is that you have finally deigned to grace us with your presence,” he drawled, shooting an icy glare at Stiles.

    “Forgive us, Your Grace,” she muttered, dropping into a curtsy and steadfastly ignoring the fixed  gaze of all the councilors and courtiers in the room.

    “Yes, please do, father,” Scott joined in. “It was my fault really, I derailed Princess Stiles with conversation.” 

    “Both of you are derailing me,” King Finstock sighed in exasperation. “Fortunately, and with no thanks to you, no serious harm has been done. Lord Boyd’s emissary is yet to arrive. Now, go wait with your sister, if you don’t mind,” he asked with mocking courtesy. Jackson was already standing behind the throne, her gaze lowered and her hands demurely crossed. Stiles skulked across the floor behind Scott to fall in line,  trying to keep her embarrassment off her face. It turned out the King had little reason to chide them, for they all waited about a quarter of an hour without a sign of the messenger. As the minutes continued to tick slowly by, King Finstock became more and more restless, drumming his fingers against the sides of his throne and  shaking his head in irritation.

    “Is this the respect that Lord Boyd would show his sovereign?” he finally burst out, unable to contain his ire any longer. “Apparently he holds the Royal court in such low esteem that he would have us squander the day away attending his messenger!” 

    “Your Grace,” Sir Stilinski cut in. “I’m certain that Lord Boyd’s delegation finds themselves delayed for perfectly legitimate reasons.” The King did not look placated. “Lord Boyd has always had the greatest reverence for Your Grace, and besides, his lands provide plentiful wheat for the castle come harvest time,” he remarked diplomatically. 

    “That’s it!” The King yelled, rubbing his hands together. “We won’t lease him land anymore! We’ll burn his crops! That’ll teach him the meaning of respect!”

    “Your Grace, that is not what I meant,” Sir Stilinski started, looking panicked. Before he could continue, the doors flew in, and two messengers finally stumbled in, bedraggled, empty-handed, and soaked to the bone. Stiles’ brow drew in confusion at the sight, for the sun was shining in full force outside.

    "Your Grace,” one of them managed, and they both sunk to their knees.

    “Explain yourselves,” the King demanded. They both trembled at the tone of his voice, or perhaps just at the cold air of the hall pressing on their wet clothes. 

    “We were travelling in good time towards your castle, Your Grace, to deliver the goodwill gifts of Lord Boyd,” the brave one managed. “We were just due west of the Beacon River when the dam broke. The whole road was flooded, most of our horses drowned, as well as one of our company.” The man’s face was ashen. “We rode with all haste to the castle, to bring the news to Your Grace.” He spotted the three princesses standing in an expecting line. “Unfortunately, the gifts were lost to the flood as well. I beg your pardon.” 

    “Nevermind that,” the King snapped. “Sir Stilinski, muster the troops for movement, and then report back to me. We must deal with this immediately.” Sir Stilinski bowed his acquiescence before turning to the messenger.

    “You say the whole road was flooded?” he asked. 

    “Aye, sir,” he nodded. “The main road, and the intersection of the four crossings, for at least two miles across.” Sir Stilinski’s expressed turned grimmer when he heard the extent of the damage, and he turned for the door. Before he could reach it however, it flew open, revealing none other than Derek Hale. Stiles drew back in surprise, wondering what on earth he was doing there. 

    “Can you tell me where is King Finstock, for I much desire to speak with him,” Derek demanded of the room. 

    “Yes, I’m right here,” King Finstock said archly, waving from his throne. Sir Stilinski glanced between the two of them for a moment before quickly exiting the room, obviously deciding he had bigger problems to deal with. Derek walked determinedly across the room, eyes fixed squarely ahead of him, until he was in front of the throne. 

    “I must beg your leave to depart this evening, Your Grace. King Peter is in need of my assistance, and I must return home as soon as possible.” His tone was coolly polite but not deferential- he was asking for the King’s permission out of custom, but it was quite clear his will was resolved already. 

    “That will be entirely impossible,” King Finstock said flatly. 

    “Your Grace,” Derek insisted, eyes darkening. “I did tell you from the beginning that my presence would still be required in my kingdom over the next several months. You gave your assent then.”

    “You still have my assent, Prince Derek. You just do not have the river’s.” 

    “Excuse me?” Derek asked, blinking at him in confusion. 

    “The dam on the Beacon River burst earlier today. The roads are flooded. Not only would it be heedless of your safety for you to depart, it would be a pointless exercise. Until we manage to clear the roads, there is no way to travel in or out of the kingdom.” Derek paled at the news. 

    “But King Peter requested my presence as soon as possible! I can afford no delay!” 

    “Believe me, I would not stop you from going,” the King snorted. “You can leave as soon as it is possible to do so with my enthusiastic agreement.” Derek didn’t even flinch at the barely veiled insult, and Stiles could tell from looking at him that his thoughts were racing, desperately searching for a solution. Why was he so desperate to leave? Sure, perhaps his uncle needed him, but the blanched expression on Derek’s face made it obvious something else was going on. 

   “I thank you for your time,” he said after a beat, and then stalked out of the room. Stiles watched him go, her mind reeling. If she let him get away now, good luck to her trying to find him later.

    “Your Grace,” she piped up, making up her mind a half second. Her father turned to her, rolling his eyes as if to say  _ not you again _ . “I must beg your permission to excuse myself. I feel most distressed at this news, and I fear I must compose myself.” 

    “Fine,” the King said, waving his hand. 

    “Stiles-” Scott started, her dark eyes wide with concern, but Stiles shook off her gentle grip and rushed away before she could say anymore. She had to catch Derek. Once she was in the hallway, she glanced around wildly, and saw him heading for the stairs up to his chambers. 

    “Prince Derek!” she called after him. He turned around, but when he saw it was her he started to walk faster.  _ Not this time you don’t,  _ Stiles thought, and picking up her skirts she practically sprinted after him. He was no match for a determined Stiles, and she caught up to him at the head of the stairs. She paused for a moment, gasping for breath. 

    “What?” he demanded, hands on his hips. 

    “What do you mean ‘what’?” Stiles shot back. “I should be asking you what! What exactly was going on in there?” 

    “Exactly what I said,” Derek snapped, but he wasn’t meeting her eyes. “My kingdom has need of me. I have more pressing duties, you know, than courting a nosy princess.” 

    “Sure,” Stiles said, crossing her arms and ignoring the insult. “That might’ve worked on the court, but it won’t work on me. When father told you that you couldn’t leave, you looked as though he’d sentenced you to the gallows.” 

    “I did not,” Derek muttered weakly.

    “You did,” Stiles insisted, jutting out her chin. A thought occurred to her. “I mean, I know you hate it here, but you can’t be that desperate to get away, can you?” Maybe she’d misread the entire situation wrong. Maybe he simply needed to be rid of her for a while, as he obviously found her presence distasteful. “I’m not that annoying, am I?” She flushed, not quite having thought through saying that last part out loud. He stared at her, taken aback. 

    “Princess,” he said after a moment, “The full moon is tomorrow night.” 

    “Oh,” Stiles breathed after a moment, gaping at him, shocked once again by the magnitude of her own stupidity. It was so obvious, and yet here was her overactive imagination spinning random theories again. She was about to speak again when Derek shushed her, eyes darting around the corridor in search of any unwanted listeners. 

    “Come into my rooms, we can talk there,” he muttered, taking hold of her arm. 

    “Um,” Stiles stammered, flushing at both the request and the warm grip he had on her. It would be highly inappropriate for her to enter unchaperoned into her betrothed’s chambers, or any man’s, for that matter. But Derek appeared completely nonplussed, and Stiles immediately felt silly and presumptuous for her reaction. He wanted to talk away from prying eavesdroppers, it made perfect sense. Besides, despite the fact that she had every reason not to, she felt safe in his presence. Slightly nervous and unbalanced and fluttery, but safe nonetheless. She tried to fight the blush off her face, mortified that he would read the direction her thoughts had gone in and scoff at her.  _ Stuff courtly convention _ , she decided,  _ this situation isn’t exactly conventional. _

    “Lead the way,” she said, trying for breeziness and nodding with what she hoped looked like firm decisiveness.  In truth, she knew exactly where his room was, but she let Derek lead her down the hallway to his rooms anyways. It wouldn’t do for him to know she’d paced back in forth in front of this very same door more than once. He let go of her to grab a set of keys out of his pocket and undo the lock. Her arm felt strange where he’d been holding her, alive and still warm with the ghost of his touch. He pushed open the door and gestured for her to follow, shutting it immediately afterwards. Stiles glanced around quickly, unable to contain her curiosity. The front parlour was dark, the heavy curtains drawn across the windows. Boots were strewn on the floor, and several coats hung haphazardly on hooks. A bag was thrown on the ground, still unpacked. Her gaze drifted towards a half-opened door, and she caught sight of his bed, messy and unmade, the sheets twisted back from where he must have slept. She looked quickly away, not wanting to intrude on his privacy, and once again found herself fighting a blush.  _ Get a grip!   _ she chided herself.  _ It’s only a bed. _

    “This is nice,” she ventured, more as an effort to tame her errant thoughts than to compliment him. He snorted. 

    “I don’t like anyone poking around in my room,” he said darkly. 

    “Well, I shudder to think what your room back home looks like,” she remarked frankly before good sense could stop her. She looked at him nervously, afraid of his reaction,  and was dumbfounded instead to see a smile dart across his lips, so quick that she could have blinked and missed it. 

    “It’s different there,” he said. “I only surround myself with people I can trust. So don’t worry, Princess, you won’t have to live in a sty.” Stiles nodded, glad to hear Derek wasn’t entirely opposed to maid service, merely that he found their servants untrustable. She supposed she should be insulted, but she was actually quite amused by the thought of paranoid Derek locking and bolting his door every morning so the nefarious scheming maids couldn’t get in. Then she remembered the reason why he acted like this, and her mirth melted away. 

    “So,” she said, turning to him and crossing her arms. “That’s the real reason you need to go back all the time. I take it King Peter had not been desperately seeking your sage council?”

    “Are you kidding me,” Derek sighed, running a hand through his hair. “He’s never listened to a word I say.” 

    “You rather gave the picture of him as a frail, elderly old king dependent on your help.” 

    “Anything but,” Derek admitted. “He’ll be around for a good time yet, believe me.”

    “So you could say he’s hale and hearty then?” It was the kind of joke she should save for someone like Scott, but she found she couldn’t help herself.  Derek stared at her for a long moment before slowly shaking his head. 

    “Please never say anything like that to me again.” 

    “Sorry.” 

    “Anyways,” Derek continued, eyes clouding over. “Now I’m stuck here in this miserable castle with no foreseeable escape, all thanks to the damn river!”

    “I’m sure it did it just to inconvenience you.” Derek shot her a glare. “I don’t really see what the problem is-” Stiles started.

    “Don’t you?” Derek cut in. “I mean, sure, it’s not really a problem at all that I’m going to transform into a giant wolf, revealing my family’s carefully guarded centuries old secret-”

    “Oh, that’s enough.” It was Stiles turn to interrupt. He blinked at her, perhaps a little taken aback that she was addressing him like that. She hadn’t meant to, but really, he was being a tad overdramatic. “All I meant is that can’t you just lock yourself in your room? Surely you’ve had enough practice at it. No one would notice anything amiss.” 

    “It’s not that simple,” Derek said. “You see that door? I could tear through that in a second.” Stiles looked at the heavy bolted door and shivered at the thought of that kind of strength. 

    “But why would you? You want to stay concealed.” 

     “I do now, but I won’t then.”

    “What? Do you lose your mind or something?” Derek winced slightly at the bluntness.

    “No,” he said shortly. “I’m there, but the wolf takes over. Instinct takes over. And the wolf’s instinct is to be with his pack.” Stiles looked at him blankly for a second before the realization hit. 

    “Your pack,” she whispered. “Back in the Forbidden Forest.” He nodded. 

    “When I change over, I’ll do anything to get back to them. And they need me as well. That’s why I need to go home.” The air in the dim room was still, and a tense silence settled over them for a moment. Derek looked so miserable and frustrated, it hurt something in Stiles’ chest.

    “So what are we going to do?” she asked. Derek stared at her, eyebrow raised in a perfect silent   _ we? _ Stiles huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes, we, Derek. This kind of involves me, whether you like it or not.” She was offering her help, such as it was, she wasn’t about to be embarrassed about it. 

    “There’s nothing I can do about this, let alone you,” Derek said and began pacing the room. He stopped and looked at her. “Unless you know some way I can get past the gates unseen.” Stiles shook her head regretfully. 

    “I’ve hardly been a half a mile outside the castle. You’d know more about that than I would.” He let out an exhale of irritation and turned back to his pacing. “Besides,” Stiles continued “even if there were a way out, I imagine it would be impossible to get past the guards. Knowing Sir Stilinski and his thoroughness, he’ll have every pathway guarded to stop any foolish ignorant from venturing onto the road. Um, not that I was trying to imply that you’re foolish, or ignorant,” she added quickly. 

    “It’s no use,” Derek said glumly. “Even if I did manage to get past them, I can’t make it over a flooded road.”

   “When you change…?” Stiles suggested, hoping that was the most sensitive terminology to use. Derek shook his head. 

    “Can’t swim, not even in my wolf form.” Stiles bit back an inappropriate chuckle at the thought that werewolf Derek could apparently rip solid doors off their hinges but couldn’t swim. “But I won’t think of that tomorrow night.” 

    “Even if you did get through the flooding, you would cause offense to my father and his court,” Stiles mused. Derek looked at her blankly, his face the very picture of  _ and why should I care?  _ “It would hurt diplomatic relations,” Stiles continued stubbornly, rolling her eyes. “You disobeying a direct order from my father while you are his guest would even be enough grounds to end the engagement.” Derek sighed in frustration, grabbing his head in his hands.

    “Okay, we’ve outlined all the reasons why this is going to be terrible, but we haven’t thought of any way to stop it. Even if I know all this now, I won’t be able to control myself then!” Stiles was silent for a moment, the only noise in the room the sound of Derek pacing back and forth.

    “I’ve got it,” she said suddenly. Derek stopped in the middle of a step and reeled around to face her. 

    “Got it?”

    “I’ve got an idea.” 

    “What is it?”

    “You’ll see later.” He raised his eyebrows at her. 

    “Is it going to work?”

    “I don’t know,” she said, letting out a shaky laugh, “but it’s all we got, so what say you that you trust me and we try it?” He paused for a second, and then nodded.  _ Here goes nothing.  _


End file.
